


To the Last Letter

by happyisahabit



Series: Starlight Collection [5]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Fate & Destiny, Manga Canon Violence, Paralysis, Screw Destiny, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10114229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyisahabit/pseuds/happyisahabit
Summary: The dark beckoning of Death's Letters promised Maka a guide and Black*Star a goal. Her Words may not be discrete and direct, but they would show her the way when the time came, and she would listen. His Words, explicit and screaming, had always been dead reckoning. Now he just has to change them. (endgame implied MaStar)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Resbang! I was blessed to work with the talented mykous and Amelia-rose whose art I've linked on tumblr. Please go check it out. It really captures the feel of this fic.  
> This fic was born out of the love of Maka and Star's friendship and how their understanding of each other and fierce loyalty might bring them closer together. It follows a parallel to manga storyline and is roughly 60% Star-third person limited and 40% Maka-third person limited. It was very fun to get into their heads for this one.  
> I hope you read, review and enjoy!

The City of Death dealt destiny’s hand to all its inhabitants, meted out murder to those who lost their paths, and drew in those fated ones to continue a bloody but just legacy. Weapons and technicians were the instruments of Death and Death’s Words were absolute.

This is what Maka believed.

Death gave different Words to every one of his Children. Orders to slice through a corrupt soul were as concrete as the Letters that burned their way onto every weapon and technician. Death’s Words were a compass, leading each Child of Death on their path.

-

Maka knows a lot about Death’s Words, knows that she won’t misunderstand hers, like her father did. She knows she won’t disobey them, like Papa. Defying the Words never ended well. It certainly hadn’t ended well for her family. Divorce, hurt, separation; these awaited those that ignored Death’s Words.

Maka would know. She’d seen it firsthand.

Papa and Mama used to fight, not knowing that Maka was on the other side of the door. They’d argue over the subjectivity of their Words, that they’d strayed from the meaning behind them. The black ink etched into her Papa’s wrist was visible all the times: _The Most._

Mama always covered hers. A week later, she was gone, a neat stack of divorce papers signed on Papa’s desk.

Maka knew there was subjectivity to Words, not always a clear cut path, but the dark beckoning of Death’s concrete order for his Children promised her a guide. Her Words may not be discrete and direct, but they would show her the way when the time came, and she would listen.

-

Black*Star never thinks much about Death’s Words. He knows he will receive them, that they are a manifestation of his destiny or some sort of path he’s meant to follow, but he doesn’t put much stock in Letters. The black ink he’ll receive won’t change him.

Black*Star knows he is destined for more.

He looks to Sid, who has so many tattoos that he can’t even make out which are from Death and which are of their own design. He looks to his mirror to see the Star emblazoned on his own shoulder by his birth family. He didn’t choose to be a Star Clan member and he won’t choose his Words. They will be chosen for him, but still a part of his being.

Black*Star wants to choose his own path and rise above the markers he has and will be given. The path shall be laid by Death, but he will reach the destination on his own terms.


	2. Childhood

Black*Star is five when he first sees Maka. She wears a pink dress that is a little dirty and the tiny ribbons in her pigtails lopsided. He watches her smile at a tall red-haired man -the Death Scythe, he remembers- before returning to his training. He’s only five, but he will be the biggest star of Death City. Sid tells him he has potential, as long as he works hard. So Black*Star works harder when Sid isn’t looking, to make his tiny years become eclipsed by his big achievements.

He’s strong, he thinks. He’s strong, but he wants to be stronger. Sid is a good goal for now, but to be better would be best. Better than a Death Scythe perhaps.

Black*Star still feels the presence of Death’s Weapon behind him, hears him murmur to that girl in pink. Yeah, greater than a Death Scythe sounds good for now. He can almost beat Sid at foot races and tag now anyway.

Maka is four and a half when she first sees Black*Star. She dusts dirt off her pink dress and ignores scuffed knees and hands for the praise of her father. That’s when she catches a flash of bright blue out of the corner of her eye. He’s kicking the air viciously and calling out loudly, aggressively. She’s seen her Papa’s scythe blades, but he’s never done martial arts like this boy. He’s so cool, twisting and turning quickly, movements like liquid. She must have said something out loud because Papa is telling her that boy is a ward of Death’s School. Maka doesn’t think this is fair; _she_ wants to do that, too.

You’re too little, Papa says. When you’re older, he says, but Maka knows what she wants. She wants to be on this boy’s level, but to be better would be best. Better than even Mama perhaps.

Maka looks over her shoulder as Papa walks her away by the hand, sees the blue haired boy stop moving. He looks strange when standing still, off-kilter, like he should always be in motion. She wonders if she might meet him again if she returned without her Papa.

-

At five and a half, Black*Star knows how to get in trouble. He knows scrawling his signature on walls and etching it into trees will get him ‘quiet time’ back at home with Sid. This is the worst punishment. Sitting still and silent in the same room while the experienced technician goes about his usual business, ignoring him is the pits. Black*Star hates being ignored, especially by as big a guy as Sid. He wants acknowledgement, so he sits and he waits. He plans how not to get caught next time.

If he isn’t caught, Sid gives him a side eye when he gets home, but says nothing. The underlying approval of his stealth training is there.

It’s when Black*Star is five and a half that he speaks to Maka for the first time.

“Who are you?”

“Maka! I’m going to enter Death’s School!” Black*Star can’t hold in his laughter because this 'Maka' is all puffed out cheeks, tiny pigtails, pink dresses, and teeny clenched fists.

Then this sprite of a girl punches him in the face. Teeny clenched fists, indeed.

Black*Star looks up and sees a green blaze. He wipes his cheek and chuckles. Perhaps she is also a Child of Death.

Years pass and Black*Star is finally at a point where he can obtain a weapon. His soul swells in anticipation for the coming year. His tenth birthday is just around the corner and he knows Maka is planning a surprise party for him with Nygus. Maka’s will follow soon after.

His hopes and ambitions have only grown along with his soul and strength over the past four years. He aims higher than the Reaper himself, to surpass a Death God. He hopes he can accomplish it with Maka.

Maka, for all her nearly ten years, has grown tough. She’s agile, flexible, and smart. She can improvise and change directions on a dime. The only thing she lacks is the overwhelming physical power and defense that Black*Star has achieved.

It’s for all these reasons that Black*Star hopes that her weapon blood will awaken soon. They’ve never tried to resonate, have no idea if they’d be compatible, but Black*Star just knows that the daughter of the Death Scythe would be a weapon worthy of his great self. It doesn’t hurt that Maka is his best friend, either.

For Maka’s part, she doesn’t think she has any tendency towards weaponry. She practices contact moves with anything long-stemmed. Her family is falling apart and Black*Star watches as she picks a side and hyper-focuses on her mother’s technician skills. She says she hates her Papa and that her Mama is her role model. Black*Star doesn’t say anything; he can’t.

He can’t say anything because he never had real parents, just Sid and Nygus as his makeshift father and sister. He doesn’t miss the potential father or mother, just holds close to those that have proven worthy of his time and effort. Maka is one of those.

So Black*Star doesn’t tell Maka he wants her to be a weapon, _his_ weapon. He lets her practice contact moves on him with a pole the same length as her father’s scythe and says nothing. He doesn’t say anything about how her mother just up and vanished, how Maka is clinging to stories of her mother’s glory days. He doesn’t talk about how her father has been hitting the bottle, the Deathscythe venting to Sid in the middle of the night. No, Black*Star doesn’t speak a word on how he runs over to Maka’s house because _no one else is there except Maka and she is asleep._

Black*Star is ten and Maka is barely still nine when he gets his Words. He wakes to his wrist stinging and glances first to the drawer that holds a pair of gloves Sid got him a while back. Words are a private matter, unique to each Child of Death. They are meant only for the Child of Death, the Reaper himself, and those that would eventually be revealed as part of the Letters’ design.

It is customary for one to cover their Words, a literal brand of destiny, to avoid focusing too much on what the Letters may mean. Plenty of technicians and weapons drove themselves to Madness through obsession with Death’s Words. Black*Star doesn’t think he would succumb to such a thing, but pulls out the gloves anyway.

After all, he’s never heard of anyone having blood red words.

-

Maka is ten when she meets Soul. She is avoiding Black*Star, who is making a ruckus and asking all the new students if they were weapons worthy of his greatness. The white haired boy sits slouched in the back corner, well out of Black*Star’s reach. Keen green eyes spot the tag that read ‘weapon’ and that is all Maka needed to approach him.

This is the only male weapon she’s approached since joining Death’s School. She doesn’t need any more men in her life after her Papa ruined their family by not heeding his Words. Black*Star doesn’t count, of course, and neither does Sid, especially since he is her teacher now. Neither of _them_ had ever let her down. Yet, her soul is pulling her to the sullen boy in the corner and she lets it, for her soul is Death’s and Death guides their paths.

His name is Soul and as his hand transforms to a red and black blade, Maka feels that she has found her path, her partner. He is a _scythe_ , he can be better than her Papa, if only he’ll let her be his technician. She doesn’t let anything weigh her down as she follows him after class to the music room because he _will_ be her partner.

Maka doesn’t know anything about music, barely knows how a piano works. She was too busy practicing and training with Black*Star, hiding from home, being angry at her father, reading books on souls and corruption, to have ever touched an instrument. The haunting melody that seeps from the school’s piano, rapped out by Soul’s bony fingers doesn’t make sense, but it sinks into her bones, rattles her soul just a little. She wonders if this is what resonation feels like.

Soul’s musical introduction comes to an abrupt halt, cut off mid-thought, but Maka can’t tell if that is normal or not with music, so she says nothing. She just smiles as Soul looks back over his shoulder, posture slipping back into a slouch.

Shortly after that, they become partners.

Black*Star tells Maka not to worry about the music, the strange feeling she gets from hearing something so foreign and the texture of her new weapon’s soul grating against hers. He tells her to have some faith that everything will work out. He tries not to be jealous that Maka has a weapon. He tries not to think about how he is still weaponless, tries very hard not to be bitter that Maka cannot be his weapon.

The best way to keep an eye on his emotionally fragile best friend is to have her with him, to protect her. He doesn’t want to let her wander too far and says so, under the guise of her being one of his faithful disciples. Yet, Black*Star, in his pettiness over weapons and technicians, pushes her away. He convinces himself (and her) that Maka getting to know her new weapon is more important.

He manages a week before he caves and meets this unknown boy. Soul is a quiet kid, but he seems like he wants to reach out for friendship. Black*Star knows that Maka wants to be a top-tier technician like her mother, and here is a scythe, waiting to be honed. Soul is reserved, unsure of Death’s School, so Black*Star takes pity on him and reaches out to the hands almost ready to leave the pockets of a mustard-colored sports jacket.

Black*Star is happy to find that he likes Soul. He actually, genuinely _likes Soul_ and not just because he needs to be nice or Maka will smack him over the head. Each passing day, he grows closer to the reclusive weapon, until his paint-thinner personality peels thelayers back revealing Soul’s true personality. Maka is happy to have another friend and to have the two of them get along.

The next day, he’s giving a speech about his greatness to the newest batch of students, hoping to find his weapon. Only one person makes it to the end, a tall girl that claps and smiles politely. She is demure, but Black*Star can sense her potential. Her clothes are plain, but sensible; a heavy cream wristband is already in place over a delicate wrist.

Black*Star isn’t concerned about this girl’s Words, though. He puts them to the side and their introductions make way for a new partnership. Tsubaki will be a great weapon.

He doesn’t think about Words again until later that afternoon, when he sees Maka reach into the deep pockets of her jacket for a pair of white gloves that will extend past her wrist.


	3. Reaping

Black*Star has just turned thirteen when he hears about Italy. He watches from afar as Maka sits on her knees, patiently, punishing herself, outside Soul’s hospital room. He wants to be there for his oldest friend, but the past three years have seen them grow apart in a way he can’t reconcile.

Maka has the same quirks and tells that she has always had; she’s an open book to him. Yet there are new stories, a shadow under her eyes and a tiredness that seeps through her confident façade that weren’t there before. Black*Star knows what to look for and he sees her slip ups in the moments when she thinks no one is watching. He knows she held Soul’s hand through his nightmare, knows that she tugs hard on her buttercup yellow sweater’s sleeves when she’s without her gloves.

He bets there’s a plain leather strap hiding her Words that itch her, eat at her, and he wonders for the first time what hers are.

The more he hears about their botched mission to Italy, the more he hates the red lines on his own wrist. Those red Letters, red like Soul’s blood that seeps through his bandages, red like Maka’s eyes after she’s been crying, are starting to make sense. He doesn’t want them to.

Black*Star doesn’t want the Words he has imprinted on his being by Death to be at all related to the incident in Italy. He doesn’t want to read the phrase he’s heard murmured by Stein,Sid and the Deathscythe around Soul’s bedside, looking over test results.

He doesn’t want his Letters to spell – so _explicitly_ – Black Blood.

It’s stupid really, that his Words are penned in a furiously bright red while the subject matter is so dark and murky, mysterious. It isn’t until later, on the mission to London, that he hears these words from the mouth of someone not in authority in Death’s School.

Black*Star is still not sure he heard correctly, but there were more pressing issues on that icy bridge in the United Kingdom: a wolf mage and a witch, trying his new Dark Arm, watching Soul and Maka argue.

He isn’t sure what happened there, but he also doesn’t want to know. His bitter thoughts on Maka’s technician tendencies and her partnership with Soul still smolder in the dark corners of his heart. He is happy with Tsubaki, reaching new heights and creating new goals. He is content to stand back during their argument yet he is eager to fight against their new opponents. Using so much energy in one (failed) assault is embarrassing, but he doesn’t care.

He forgets about it entirely when Maka wields a blistering Soul, burning through her gloves and marring pale palms.

It’s when the battle is over, though, that Black*Star thinks he hears his Words on someone’s lips. At first he thought Maka said his name, but when he looks at her, she is looking down. She is looking at her hand, the tattered gloves and red blisters apparently fascinating. Maka had not called to him and a dark spot he can’t distinctly make out is on the corner of her mouth.

Dirt, he thinks.

Black Blood, a voice in his head whispers.

Black*Star turns from Maka. Just dirt, he hopes.

-

Black*Star rolls out of bed, uncaring of the wrinkles and disheveled state of his suit. His nap before the big party has left him a bit groggy, but he lets darker feelings lingering from dreams of Words and equally dark bodily fluids be tamped down by the prospect of free food and a light-hearted atmosphere. Tsubaki looks distressed about his clothes, but he slaps a carefree grin on as they meet up with Soul and Maka, ready to drool over the free food.

The great hall of Death’s School is wide and open for the event, cleared of the usual bulletins and study tables. The decorations are both haunting and pretty, exactly what he’d expect. Knowing what to anticipate puts him at ease. Maka is wearing a dress, but the bows in her hair catch his attention more, reminding him of days they squabbled in the dirt, laughing and not knowing what Death may have in store. Black*Star twitches as the edgy feeling creeps back in, so he shrugs a shoulder out of his jacket and makes his way to where Kid is talking to Maka. The predictably distressed look on Kid’s face sets him back to rights.

When the welcome speeches start, Black*Star takes the opportunity to butt in, not regretting the bloody nose and lip. He picks up two plates and packs them with food before beginning to gorge himself. Maybe that will help stave off this tingle on the back of his neck. Tsubaki looks sheepish over the piles of porcelain he’s accumulating, but doesn’t say anything. She steps away to dance with Liz, freeing the older girl from her technician's exacting dance instructions. Black*Star catches Maka leaving the hall with a plate of neatly arranged food.

Maka hates raw fish.

Black*Star tears into a shank of meat from the bone as he feels a jitter roll up his spine. His eyes snap to Stein and Medusa, dancing a waltz. He can’t see their faces from here, but he can feel malicious intent; whose, he isn’t sure. When Sid’s voice barks out at Stein, Black*Star is already on his feet, meat still double-fisted. His foster father’s wounds distract him until Stein demands where Medusa has gone.

Too late. He sees the tail of her dress slip away off the balcony Soul and Maka had been.

Sid grabs Nygus’ handle and resonates with her. The next thing Black*Star knows, he’s thrown into a coffin and falling, falling, falling through layers of Death’s School. He can’t hear anyone yelling, but he can hear explosions and the cackling of witches.

Black*Star lands on his feet, already poised to attack. The other three technicians do as well, though Maka’s stance is thrown slightly off balance by landing in heels instead of trusty combat boots. Their weapons lay sprawled on the floor, Tsubaki the first to get up.

More explosions and screaming sound in the distance, buffered by the walls they’ve learned Death’s trade in. Stein demands their attention as they rise together.

“The Kishin of the First Generation is sleeping beneath Death’s School. Our general doctor turned out to be the Witch Medusa. Her goal is to resurrect the Kishin to spread Madness across the globe. We cannot allow that to happen!”

Death’s Wards burst into a flurry of raised voices and questions. Stein cut them off again.

“Don’t waste the chance Sid gave us. You are the last hope of Death’s City. I will guide you to the entrance of the Kishin’s cell.”

On the way, they prepare in what little ways they can. Maka swaps shoes with Patti, who had worn tough leather boots to the party. Patti wouldn’t need them in her weapon form, but Maka would have a hard time fighting in open-toed and open-backed heels. She restrings her hair ribbons into pigtails, eyes hard and ready for battle.

Black*Star discards the jacket and tie easily, rolling his sleeves as high as they would go and glad for the leather strap over his wrist. He rolls the legs of his pants up and reties his laces. Stein loses his tie as well, but Kid stays exactly as he is, used to fighting in an immaculate suit.

The entrance to the Kishin’s cell is haunting, but not pretty. The inherent darkness it gave off spoke of days before Death’s School, before Letters were burned into skin, before Death cared enough to have Children. This was from a time Death worked alone, brutal and efficient.

Black*Star is months away from fourteen when he stands shoulder to shoulder with Kid and Maka in altered formal wear, ready to take on what may be their most dangerous mission yet. Maka grips Soul’s shaft, rubbing her hand over the thin buckled strap covering her Words. Kid doesn’t fidget at all, but Black*Star twitches a little, Tsubaki’s kusarigama form a comforting weight in his hands. He hears a match light and knows Stein is smoking again.

“Our enemy is powerful. From here, you must be ready to face death. You can still leave right now… Are you prepared to face your fears? Will you follow me or run? That’s for your souls to decide.”

Before either Black*Star or Kid can say anything, Maka steps forward.

“Our souls’ are Death’s and we’ll use them to stop Madness. Let’s go!”

Stein blows out a skull shaped puff of smoke, tilting his head to stare at them through the skull’s eyes. Small smile and eyes creased, he mutters a cheery, “Good!”


	4. Rising

The four technicians run through the underbelly of Death’s School, ever closer to the sack of skin that wrapped around a contagious blood-thirsty craze.  The consequences of Madness resurrecting would be unimaginable with the current captor, Lord Death himself, unable to leave the sight of craziness’ imprisonment.

The air was growing heavy with the enormity of the task ahead. It made Black*Star anxious.

“Hey, Maka, can’t you sense these witches with your soul?”

“They’re using Soul Protect, so right now…”

“That’s all you can sense? I thought that was your strong point,” he teases. He laughs at her immediate anger as her face contorts into a pout and she spat about his rudeness. Her eyes widen suddenly as Maka, Kid and Stein all skid to stop. Black*Star, confused, figures something must be ahead that he couldn’t sense.

“This obscene horrible sensation… Dad!” Maka’s shock gives way to disappointment and mild disgust. Black*Star puffs his cheeks out to stop from laughing at her description.

Stein starts to explain their plan while Spirit pouts and transforms.

“Until the end, protect only one thing: your own life. Understood?”

The three young technicians answer affirmatively, but Black*Star doesn’t meet Stein’s eyes. Tsubaki rides along the edge of his soul, questioning, but Black*Star’s soul is bigger and the extra volume lets him hide the thought that errantly floats through his brain. Maka. _Black Blood_.

Medusa is standing casually at the end of the hall and Stein is telling them to run straight at her, not to anticipate, but to simply react. Stein and Spirit will handle her. Kid to his right and Maka to his left, Black*Star engages Tsubaki’s Dark Arm mode and breaks from the volley of arrows second. He’s sweating, but doesn’t look behind him to see Maka’s progress. He tries not to feel responsible for her, but it’s a battle he always loses.

He’s supposed to take out the Cursed Sword, the one that hurt Soul in Italy. He’s supposed to because he’s the only one who can, because he can attack with his soul directly. But when he actually comes to toe to toe with the Demon Sword, Black*Star feels all the unluckiness of his thirteenth year and the Letters branded on him flash to the forefront of his mind. He’s cracking his knuckles and showboating, but he has no idea what words are coming out of his mouth, so preoccupied with what Death has planned for him.

When a Maddened face overtakes his opponent, Black*Star is ripped back to the present and slips a foot backward. He’s unconsciously gone on the defensive. Tsubaki is telling him to be careful, but he can’t stop running his mouth because he’s scared. Scared that his Words are meant for this fight. Scared that this may be his end.

He doesn’t get the chance to follow this train of thought when Maka arrives, yelling his name. Any hesitance he holds in his stance drops when she arrives next to him.

“I’ll fight them.” Maka’s gaze is clear and verdant. His squawk of ‘what?!’ is overrun by Tsubaki and Soul’s interjections about Stein’s strategy. The Demon Sword’s black blood floats in a horrific aura around their blade. Black*Star thinks back to Maka coughing on the bridge in London and Soul, slashed in Italy, laying on a hospital bed for weeks.

“Idiots! Don’t ruin my superb scene entrance!” _Don’t fight them; this is my destiny. Let me fight them; I don’t want my Words for you._

Yet as he takes a step forward, Maka casts Soul’s blade out in front of him.

“Hey, Mak… don’t get ahead of yourself or I might take you down, too…” He threatens, but Maka is not looking at him. She has only eyes for the Demon Sword. He’s impressed and a bit sentimental; those same eyes were once pointed at him before she punched a tiny fist into his face at the age of four. “Ooh, the model student disobeying a direct order from her favorite teacher? You reach that rebellious age, eh?”

Her eyes don’t clear, but her frown quirks back up into a smirk he knows well as she tells him to shut up. He feels each Letter printed on his wrist as he tells her she can have this fight. Unable to resist in his wave of nostalgia, he tells her to call for him is she needs to be rescued. Her cheeks flush as she tells him to go.

Black*Star leaves, knowing that she does understand his message. That he would protect her if she asked. But they already know she won’t ever ask.

-

Maka is held together by the tightness of her pigtails, the steel plating of her boots and sheer willpower, an unshakeable Faith in her own abilities. But now, with ribbons instead of elastic and leather for steel, Maka clings to her third glue, willing it to stick to her bones. Her physical protection is at its lowest just three days before her thirteenth birthday, having been dressed for a party and not combat.

It’s a stupid wish, but she fools herself into thinking that those extra three days would have helped somehow. Now she’s watching the erraticmovements of the Demon Sword as Black*Star (and all of his thirteen years) fades into the darkness of the next corridor. Soul’s demonsteel is cooler than she’s used to in her hands. Gloves, she thinks. I’m missing my gloves.

Nearly thirteen year old Maka has zero ideas on how to win this fight as she tells Soul. She will though. Because she has Faith and Death is her guide.

-

Each footfall in dress shoes feels heavier as Black*Star runs from Maka and the biggest connection to his Words that he knows. The heaviness creeps up his legs, through veins, every capillary, and hangs like dead weight in his ribs, gut twisting under the burden.

Kid is standing in front of him, sister pistols locked and loaded but hanging low at his sides. What was he doing just standing there? A knee to the back and an earful of complaining knock Kid out of his stupor and Black*Star from the sluggishness dragging his feet. The werebeast before them waits, not attacking, barely having a presence. Black*Star lunges forward and makes contact with all the ferocity and intent he should have displayed against the Demon Sword.

He’s in range. He’s in range and he isn’t hitting anything. He knows Tsubaki’s tanto blade should have pierced flesh, hasn’t, but he doesn’t let up. He has to get this one right.

It’s only when Kid walks past him, a dull look on his face, that Black*Star lets up and accepts the werebeast turning man uses spatial magic. He takes the butt of Patti’s gun to the head for continuing his attack and laughing it off. Kid rushes ahead into the final chamber in the dungeon, shooting a pillar instead of their quarry.

“Black*Star! Be careful, the Madness of the Kishin makes people hallucinate.”

Black*Star just scoffs. “My sixth sense sucks! I can’t feel any Madness!”

He charges forward to the sound of Kid’s laughs, Tsubaki’s tanto changing into the Dark Arm as he flips through the air. He really doesn’t feel any Madness, never has. Even the Demon Sword, arguably the second most Mad opponent he’s ever (not) faced, did not feed him ribbons of Insanity, beckon him to Madness. He was frightened, but not close to giving in.

This assurance flows through him now, ready to strike the polka dot witch from above. Her tadpole bomb hits him in the chest, but the backlash sweeps through the hall, knocking her off her feet and the syringe of Black Blood rolling across the floor. A giant tadpole knocks the plunger away as he moves to shatter it, so Black*Star takes the opportunity to vent his anger on the creature.

The moment of vengeance lets the little witch press the tip of the needle into the massive skin bag sealed in the back of the chamber. He rushes forward, already feeling the fatigue creep in from use of the Dark Arm combined with Speed*Star, his chest ready to explode from exertion.

He strikes, the dark fluid splattering and seeping into the grout. His wrist pulses painfully in time with his heart.

Tsubaki disengages to a tanto and Black*Star is hunched over, panting.

“Haa… ha... I did it. The Kishin won’t resurrect now… I stopped the Black Blood.”

His sense of victory filled him to the brim, giving him that last burst of endorphins to keep him aware and awake. In a few minutes, he’ll crash.

So when the air around the fleshy bag stagnates and then suddenly ejects the most malicious smelling gases from within, Black*Star is confused. The terrible eyes etched into the skin sizzle away as he continues to try and catch his breath. He can swear the shadow under the bag is staring at him.

“I sliced the needle in half—I stopped her from injecting the Black Blood!”

Kid’s response is quiet, resigned. “What you sliced was the statue. Look closely… How ironic that you hallucinated in the end, so concentrated on breaking the needle that you used your sixth sense.”

Black*Star’s eyelids feel heavy. He is pressed into the ancient floorboards, unable to even pick his head up anymore. His admittance of failure is muted, denied, and smothered by dusty grit rising from the rough plane his face is against. His endorphins and adrenaline have fled and he feels like the floor is coming up to press against him while gravity doubles to hold him in place.

But the needle is there, penetrated deeply into the shifting mass hanging a foot above the ground. He failed and Black*Star hazily wonders if he just fulfilled his Words. His red Words are abnormal; no one has red Words, only black as deep and dark as Death’s cloak. Was he always meant to destroy the balance Death worked for? Meant to bring back the Madness?

The last of his strength leaves his neck and his whole face is in the dirt; he can feel at least one splinter pressing into the flesh covering his cheekbone. He can only see a sliver of what is going on, rumbling the floor and crackling in the air. His eyes are unable to focus but the flesh ball is growing, glowing, floppy strips are peeling off and there are eyes. There are eyes everywhere. The chains buckle under the load and Black*Star thinks he can hear Kid screaming over the gray noise in his ears. There is definitely a big explosion, though, because it sends him flying back and between the change in vantage point, the buzzing noise, the blurred vision and the smoke, Black*Star can’t see what’s happening anymore.

There is scream bordering on the decibel of nails on a chalkboard and Black*Star tries to get back up, the fog slowly lifting. Tsubaki is humming in the back of his mind, trying to assess his injuries. The smoke is cleared enough that he can see a naked man, emaciated and at least a foot taller than Stein. The wavelength pouring off the man is something even Black*Star can feel and recognize. This is the Kishin.

“Tsubaki… Dark Arm Form…” he huffs. “I’m going to kill you, ya droopy-eyed bastard!” He’s managed to kneel, but Tsubaki is admonishing him as soon as the thought crosses his lips.

“Black*Star, you’re already at your limit with so many injuries! If you continue using my Dark Arm, I’ll devour your soul…”

His Words itch and pulse and Black*Star finds himself yelling at Tsubaki, but she is yelling back, refusing her technician’s order. He slams her tanto form onto the floor, using his anger as a springboard, the itch in his wrist as an anchor.

“Then you stay here and watch!” He can hear her voice, altered by speaking through demonsteel, calling for him, but Black*Star is already a step away from the gaunt figure in the center of the vapor. He shoves an elbow and a hand into the spine of the creature- not a man, never a real person, just a thing of evil- and forces his soul outward. He feels the pulse through his veins and every capillary, ready to burst from his skin, the potency of his soul expanding beyond his mortal shell.

The backlash is expected. He can feel the rupturing of blood vessels and the tearing of muscle in his left arm, his elbow cap feels shattered. The opposite hand is tingling and numb, the feeling trickling down into his wrist and lingering over his Words, taunting him. He is at his most extreme, unable to withstand even his own soul wavelength.

The Kishin’s blank face stares back without real eyes, impassive and unharmed. The tingle in his wrist is cast aside in Black*Star’s mind, “Once more!” As he brings his arm around, the Kishin does _something_ with its hand, whipping it through the air in front of his face. Something in Black*Star’s head feels runny and all of his movement is brought to an abrupt halt. He finds himself flung back, through the air, bouncing harshly off the floor.

Everything is black and silent for the next few seconds, but when he opens his eyes again, long flesh-colored ribbons are floating up through the air and a figure in a purple dress and pigtails has grabbed a hold. It all disappears through the enormous hole in the ceiling- was that always there? -before everything returns to a blessed black.


	5. Questions

His arm and shoulder are healed, every splinter plucked and bruise the yellow of healing vessels. In an effort to return some semblance of normalcy, Black*Star drags Kid, Soul, Patti, Tsubaki and Maka out to the heavily graffiti-covered basketball court to shoot some hoops. Everyone is willing to play, except Maka.

Maka is still sporting bandages on her cheeks and bags under her eyes, but Black*Star can’t see if her other injuries healed or still wrapped up under her sweatshirt and jeans.

“Hey, Maka… we’re starting.” His voice is level and he keeps calm even as she snaps back at him and chucks her book. Grumbling, she steps up next to him and Patti slips her baseball cap over Maka’s hair, pushing her bangs back. He knows Maka can’t play basketball; he only started playing when Soul started hanging out with him and a few other kids in their class. Her frown is still firmly etched into the lines of her face, so Black*Star does what he does best: distract her. A basketball game, a punishment game and some whining later, Maka’s look of serious and dark contemplation morphs into confusion and embarrassment. It isn’t really what he wants, but at least Maka looks less likely to run off in search of the Kishin or lock herself in her room.

He doesn’t count on Spirit retching.

-

Maka is comfortable again, wounds healed and pigtails tight. Her combat boots are back firmly on her feet and she swears inwardly to never take them off again. When she runs into Sid on her search for Crona, she thinks she feels the tug of Death’s hand on her soul. She enters the room, greeting the Demon Blade. The reticent technician-weapon stumbles over their words, but Maka has her Faith and places it in the pale hands fidgeting out of the ends of a black robe.

Everything is back to the usual mindset in Death’s School: live happily with a mindset to kill. Maka’s finally thirteen, but somehow, it doesn’t feel any different and feels completely new at the same time. Something is slowly stirring in the distance, but it is too far for Maka to see, so she holds onto the present and awaits for Death’s path to open before her.

-

When Maka returns to Death’s School in a coffin, it is all Black*Star can do to not run to the infirmary. Instead, he waits.

He sits on the bench outside the school, counting the cracks in the sidewalk. His peripheral vision catches movement. The Thousand-Mile Eye walks towards the main doors. Azusa Yumi isn’t interesting to Black*Star right now, butthe slight glimpse of red he sees peeking out from the ruffled cuff of her dress shirt _is_. He is up and moving before he realizes it, planting himself between Azusa and the door handle.

The Gun Bow does not appear surprised by his appearance, likely having seen him coming, but her expression tightens when she cannot immediately determine why this Death Child blocks her path. She is staring at his bright hair, eye twitching. His blue-green eyes are blazing and determined. He reaches for the glove on his right hand and before Azusa can say anything about propriety, he shows her his Words.

She cannot help her reaction. Her sharp eyes boring into the stark color and the Words themselves, inhaling sharply, Black*Star gauges her response, weighs it carefully. With the events that had transpired in the past few weeks, he has been searching for anything to help explain their bloody color, knowing his Letters spell the root of recent Madness. He wants more than anything for the red in his wrist to mean nothing, or at least nothing worse than what is already Spelled out.

He drops his hand when her stance loses a modicum of tension, her lungs refilled and eyes less invading.

“I’m here to discuss the enemies’ movements, not Death’s Path.” She dodges giving an answer and Black*Star burns, ungloved hand fisting and cracking into the door frame behind him. When the sound stops echoing in the courtyard and Black*Star can feel the splinters prickling in the meat of his palm, Azusa sighs and adjusts her glasses. She reaches into her pocket and extracts a black marker. He’s confused when she hands it to him. “I did not say I would not discuss your Path. Clearly you know a little of mine, though you should not have looked. I cannot take this as coincidence. I simply cannot discuss it now.”

Black*Star is still staring at the black marker when the Weapon of Death passes him. He hears her voice calling back down the hall, “You should go visit your friend.”

He grips the marker, but Black*Star still has more questions than answers.

-

Maka wishes she could move so she could punch Black*Star into next century. Her oldest friend is invading her personal space and she can’t resist at all. The marker lines feel weird in her pores. If only she could do more than strain her vocal chords and glare daggers, Black*Star would be flat on his back, unconscious, by now.

Liz and Tsubaki are talking about using makeup remover to get rid of the lop-sided star emblazoned on her forehead when Black*Star’s attention is drawn away from making her miserable. Green and blue eyes that were lit with mischief and teasing narrow to a look Maka knows well enough: Black*Star is going to spy on someone, and not for the fun of it.

It was the look he always had when they were kids and she was left alone at her house. When he would come to her home in the middle of the night, perched on her bedroom window, arms crossed and not quite angry, but upset. When he knew something wasn’t right, but was happening anyway.

An offer to come inside and sleep on her roll-away cot had always banished that look and brought a happier grin to his face.

When she made him aware she was awake and he could come in, they’d spend the rest of the night into the early morning hours talking about random things and sneaking down to the kitchen to get snacks. Though there wasn’t anyone to hide from, they tiptoed, giggling and pretending shadows were corrupted souls to battle.

So when Black*Star somehow slips out of the room, Maka isn’t surprised. Soul casts a look at her marker-covered face before following.

A few minutes later, her metal bed frame rattles just a little. Something has shaken the walls and floor of the room. Maka knows it has something to do with Black*Star.


	6. Vanguard

_ I’m going to attack any enemy of Maka’s. _

It’s something Black*Star has held himself to for as long as he’s known her. The rush of his soul crushing the walls outside the infirmary is his reaffirmed promise, proof that he’s healed and ready to take on the mantle of protector again. Soul had wanted to come, to aid him, but Black*Star could only offer a sheepish apology before taking off with Tsubaki into the heart of the enemy territory.

Because as much as it is Soul’s job to work with and protect Maka, Black*Star can do it, too. He is the vanguard while Soul is the shield and sword at Maka’s side. He knows because, before Weapons entered their lives, Black*Star was the shield and sword.

Two weeks before they got their results that would reveal whether they would go into EAT or NOT, Maka got in a fight. Black*Star was out with Sid for a guys’ night out, celebrating that Black*Star had actually arrived and taken his written test in addition to his physical exam.

They got home late, but there on the front stoop was Spirit Albarn, sullen and sunken in. He didn’t say anything as Sid shook his head and ushered the man inside, but Black*Star clenched a fist and spun on his heel. Despite the liter of soda he drank, he ran full tilt towards the Albarn home. He skidded to a stop next to the tree he always climbed to Maka’s window, belching from the displaced gas. The light was still out in her room.

He deftly scaled the tree and jumped the gap to land on the sill. As usual, Maka left it unlocked. He always wanted to yell at her for it, but didn’t want to give up his one sure way in. It was more fun than the front door anyhow. When he slipped into the room, there was no sign of her; her bed still neatly made from the morning. A light from the hall led him to the small bathroom.

Black*Star heard a small hiss before he turned the corner.

“Ah!” Maka dropped the ice pack she was holding into the sink when his image appeared in the mirror. “‘Star! What-”

“Who did that?” He was at her side, grabbing her wrist before she could pick up the melting bag. There was a cut splitting her eyebrow and a nice shiner just starting to bloom. She pursed her lips and turned away, but he reached out and grabbed her chin. Maka flinched, but he didn’t let go. “Who did it, Mak?”

“Ericksson and Maier. They were pissed I scored better than them and got the jump on me,” she said, pulling away. “I got ‘em good so don’t worry about it.”

Black*Star grit his teeth before picking up the cotton and antiseptic she had out on the counter, dabbing at her cut. He was maybe a bit too forceful, but at the moment, he didn't really care. He just knew that if he had walked her home today instead of running off with Sid, this wouldn't have happened. Ericksson and Maier were rude and stupid, but scared of him. Maka squeezed her eye shut and hissed at him, but wordlessly accepted the fallen ice pack from him. The Deathscythe hadn’t been home; he wouldn’t have left Maka by herself if he’d seen her injuries. He wasn’t surprised when the sun came up and the red-haired man hadn’t returned.

He sat up from the roll-out mattress on Maka’s floor to see her still asleep, cheek and eyebrow twinging as she moved and pressed the side of her face into the pillow. For as neatly as she made her bed in the morning, Maka was a restless sleeper, rustling the covers and moving throughout the night.The butterfly bandage had held her cut together into the early dawn; he’d have to thank Nygus for patching him up so many times that he knew what to do. Whether she knew it or not, Maka was getting an escort to and from class until Ericksson and Maier understood that making Maka their target, made him their enemy.

For now, she is his to protect.

Protecting Maka and beating down her enemies becomes secondary when he finds himself across the battlefield from Mifune once again. He knows Mifune isn't the one who hurt Maka, but that's who stands before him, a barrier to the source of his true ire.His protective fury channels into something more personal, a second chance to prove himself against a powerful warrior. He has grown since their last meeting and Mifune strikes him in such a way, with such ferocity, that Black*Star knows he should be dead if not for the blades hitting with their blunt edges.

When he gets up and Mifune is retreating with his tiny witch and the mosquito-like man, Black*Star wants to finish his fight, but he is less insistent. He knows Mifune can beat him, kill him. His ace in the hole of Tsubaki’s Dark Blade was revealed to have no effect. He can’t match up yet. Mifune tosses him a small candy, round and in a green wrapper. Black*Star squeezes it and stuffs it in his pocket.

He isn’t protecting Maka as much as using her as an excuse to fight right now; Mifune’s clear priority is Angela, while his fell by the wayside as soon as he had a conflict of interest. Some vanguard he is.

The trip back to Death’s School is not pleasant. Sid’s blank zombie eyes bore into the back of Black*Star’s head. He can easily imagine the man’s live dark eyes filled with reprimand and that unfathomable quality- that ‘you could be dead right now’- he always got when he bit off more than he could chew. Nygus is silent, a quick glance for injuries has her pasting a strip of gauze and medical tape over his cheek; most of his other injuries are bruises and abrasions that haven’t bled yet on his neck, torso and chest. Black*Star can feel the inklings of soreness in each and every mark he took, knowing it will be a while until he can move without cracking a vertebrae.

Tsubaki is a comfortable silence next to him, but Azusa passes him with just a look. She is impassive, their eyes meeting for a singular moment. Black*Star feels a knot in his chest sinking into his stomach. He is going to get some answers soon. He feels a pulse of Azusa’s soul pass through him. The park outside Death’s School, nighttime.

Azusa keeps walking, but Black*Star stops, involuntarily rubbing his wrist. Tsubaki asks him if he’s alright. Black*Star just smiles and shrugs. Probably.

-

Blair is curled up around Maka’s knees, asleep, as Maka bids goodnight to Soul. She’s still stuck in the infirmary bed with its coarse sheets, but she can definitely feel Blair’s weight on her leg. She thinks she has been able to twitch her knee a little. Just as Soul is about to turn and leave, Black*Star pops his head through the door, asking to come in.

If the politeness wasn’t suspicious, his whispering with Soul certainly is. He has a bandage on his face that looks like it Nygus' handiwork and he’s wearing bulky clothes that cover his arms and legs. Black*Star has been in a fight.

The small satisfaction of twitching her knee vanishes from Maka’s mind and the irritation is back full force. She doesn’t even register that she can turn her head now to watch Black*Star’s approach.

“What are you two idiots whispering about this time of night? You told me earlier you were looking for something I disliked.”

He doesn’t respond. His hand pulls something out of his pocket and places it at her elbow. Up close, she can see the darkness around his eyes like he needs more sleep and there is some suspicious mottled red and blue peeking out of the collar of his sweatshirt.

He turns to leave, but stops when she calls out.

“What is this? Did something happen to this?” Did something happen to _you_?

She is concerned, because Black*Star left like he was going to get in trouble. She worries because it looks like he found it. Yet Black*Star just turns back, the movement unnaturally stiff for him.

“Who knows… it’s just from some samurai from who knows where… just the candy, though.”

He walks out like he’s hiding a limp. “What was that all about?”


	7. Red

Black*Star sprawls on a bench in a park near Death’s School, waiting for the Thousand-Mile Eye. He’s been there about an hour, but he had nothing else to do after seeing Maka in the infirmary. The fact that she was able to move her head to yell at him as he walked around her room is a good sign. He even saw her clench her fingers into a fist. So now he waits.The sky is clear and moon smiling it's off-kilter grin all the while. He had just started going through his fight with Mifune for the fourth time when footsteps alerted him to a presence.

Azusa Yumi stands before him, arms crossed, expression pinched. Black*Star sits up a little straighter on the bench, but when she doesn’t move to speak, he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He already asked her once, he wasn’t going to do it again.

“…there’s no easy way to say this.” Azusa clips her words, as if trying to swallow them back in.

“So just say it,” he spits, “I ain’t going to break.” She gives him a look like she does not quite believe him before her expression closes off again.

“Death’s Words are a guide, tied to each Death Child’s fate. They are Written in his color, a seal on your fate.” Black*Star wants to shake her, but restrains himself; he knows all this already! “Words are subjective; they can apply to your goals, how you achieve them, your relationships, your path as one of Death’s instruments. There are hundreds of ways each set of Letters can be interpreted.”

The Gun Bow delivers her explanation impassively, voice flat, but her fingers dig deeper into the fabric of her blazer with each sentence. Black*Star watches her hands as her face gives nothing away. Each word feels heavier as they tumble down to a conclusion he did not really wanted to reach.

“If not in black, Words can be- are red. Red Words are not sealed, they do not guarantee anything. They are liable to drag their Children down a Mad path, as they are constantly uncertain.”

A million tracks race through his mind. His Words could drive him to Madness. He had already allowed the Black Blood to resurrect Asura. He had not faced the Demon Blade wielder, the Black Blood incarnate. So many opportunities to face his Letters, squandered. Was he always destined to aid in sending the world into Madness? Could he do nothing to stop it?

Azusa cuts into his thoughts. “-and if your Words are paired, then your pair will not… you’ll be alone.”

Black*Star draws in a sharp breath. Flashbacks to London and Death’s catacombs urged him to vehemently deny any sort of pair for his Words. He does not want his Words for anyone, least of all her. Azusa’s arms fall to her sides.

“Is there…” he stops, re-wetting his dry mouth. “Is there any way for them to become black?”

Azusa circles a hand around her wrist, pushing the fabric back to view her stark red Letters, the smudges of black marker faint on her pale skin.

“…No.”

The bench under Black*Star cracks. He didn’t even realize he was gripping the wood until it splinters under his hands. He would not accept that. He had to make his Words change. For himself, for his friends, for everyone. He already let his destiny slip through his fingers too many times. No one would suffer, die because of his Words.

“I will change them. I will make my Words black.”

He did not look back at the Gun Bow as he left the small park, but he heard her just fine.

“I hope you do.”

-

Black*Star stands in a perfect handstand, balanced on two fingers. Dirt and light bruising under his eye, he closes them to concentrate on his body and block out his surroundings. His body shakes slightly with exertion, still tired from his nonstop fighting.

Maka could see his boots in the air together, still and straight, from the window of the classroom into the corridor. She steeples her hands together, feeling grateful again to be able to move her appendages as she pleased. _Why is he doing that? Did something happen?_

She only knows she is thinking aloud because Soul makes a small noise of uncertainty to her right. Maka turns to face forward in the class, but her thoughts continue to linger on her friend. Black*Star has been reckless in the past week, challenging people left,right and center,constantly calling out ‘Fight me!’ to anyone bigger or stronger than him. His 10 matches resulted in 10 wins, all without his weapon by his side. His soul is strong and Maka worries that Black*Star is planning something, as though he may go somewhere Tsubaki cannot help him.

She has no idea what could push her oldest friend to the lengths he seems to be traveling. She had hardly seen him since his strange appearance in her hospital room, beaten up and bearing a single piece of unsweet candy.

Her ruminations are ripped from Black*Star as Stein slaps the chalkboard behind him, emphasizing the large letters spelling out ‘Duel Arts’. She’s called down from her seat and Black*Star is brought back in, sweating and puffing from his self-inflicted training regimen. Stein instructs Black*Star to remain unarmed as he comes to stand next to her.

“You’ll only be crushed if you fight alone against the enemies to come, so what you will be learning now is _Team_ Soul Resonance.”

Stein instructs them to attack as a cell, but as Soul transforms into her hand, Maka can’t feel anything but apprehension, even as Black*Star gets pumped up and Ox and Harvar take their positions. She’s just trying to figure out what Stein means by team resonance when Black*Star rushes their professor. He misses every swipe while Stein casually addresses her over-analyzing nature.

The result is Ox stabbing Harvar’s business end into Black*Star’s backside and zapping him. She tries to tune out their squabbling, but ends up dragged into it when the butt of Soul’s staff catches Black*Star in the face during her attack on Stein. Somehow, this ends with electricity flowing through them both as Ox misses his mark again when Black*Star shakes her.

Maka is seeing red until Black*Star calls off their praxis and challenges Ox to a duel. Her hair is standing on end from Harvar’s lightning nature, but another tingle zaps up her spine as a serious look settles on Black*Star’s face. Why is this so important to him? What is he trying to prove? To accomplish?

Where did he go that day to return so beat up?

The battle is over hilariously quick. Ox barely lunges forward before Black*Star’s fist brutally meets his face, tumbling into the wall with a crash. Maka is certain that Black*Star didn’t even use his soul to affect the power of his hit.

“The 11th victory in a row…” she mumbles.

He scoffs, refusing to look at her. “Don’t include that bastard in my record.”

They have failed Stein’s first test.


	8. Duel

Black*Star sits cross-legged on the stone wall surrounding the woods used for field practice on Death’s School’s secondary campus. The spot overlooks the whole city, people milling about the streets, small and unrecognizable from the distance. His eyes are closed, though, Tsubaki’s Dark Arm fisted in one hand while he concentrates. Tsubaki’s newest form is something he doesn’t have mastery over and if he wants to face his Words, he needs every skill he can muster.

He needs to understand the other presence that resides in his weapon.

Tsubaki’s hilt hums in his hand and dark energy crackles around them silently. Her soul is tranquil and his presence in their resonation makes small shallow ripples. His soul’s volume is compact and tempered while he concentrates; he can’t overpower her if he wants to learn and get The Other presence to respond.

In the glassy waters of Tsubaki’s soul, Black*Star faces his partner and The Other. He locks eyes with It and the power surges through him, the marks of The Other clawing up his skin, into his eyes. He knows his eyes are closed in the physical realm, but he feels them forced open and strained, contracted pupils rolling back into his skull.

A Brooklyn accent breaks his concentration and the squeezing bands, the tattoos of the Dark Arm recede. He’s sweating and discomforted as Liz calls for him and Tsubaki to join their cell.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you overdo it,” Liz says, hands on her hips. Tsubaki alights on the ground easily next to her.

“I won’t accomplish anything if I’m scared to get hurt,” he retorts, raising a brow at her. Liz just slings an arm around Tsubaki and leads them to the practice grounds.

-

Black*Star breaks through the trees with Liz and Tsubaki close behind, whispering to each other. Maka looks up as Stein addresses her childhood friend.

“Have you been training using that Soul Absorption Potion I gave you? It should help you receive others’ soul wavelengths…”

Black*Star looks blandly at Stein and announces he just drank the whole thing. Maka hadn’t seen or heard about this new aspect of Black*Star’s training- and wasn’t there just a new one every day? But she _does_ see Tsubaki’s shock and the crinkling of Stein’s face as though he just heard something unbelievable. He's done something reckless again.

His erratic behavior isn’t exactly out of line from what she knows of Black*Star, having been part and parcel of his ridiculousness since she was five, but current circumstances make it more draining and stressful than it used to be. Maka knows he is training even harder than ever, going on unsanctioned missions, pushing himself beyond what he should be capable of.

She doesn’t like it. Black*Star constantly sweeps lofty goals aside like they weighed nothing while she struggles to catch up. She’s always been a step behind, and that bark of Black*Star’s rings, echoing in any room he steps into and leaving her head aching.

Her ears are still buzzing with his laughter when Stein brings their attention to the task at hand: team resonance. Maka is apprehensive because full and total resonance is still a new concept for her and Soul. They’ve managed to resonate deep enough to create the Witch Hunter, but most of their souls were collected by sheer force of will. Slipping into a cohesive resonance with five other people is a tall task to achieve. The severity of their success or failure is brought to the forefront with Stein’s admission that even the senior technicians and Deathscythes need more strength. They need even one-star techs to throw their weapons into the fray.

“Any team that cannot perform teal soul resonance by the end of today will be cut from my class.”

Maka’s brow tightens. No one has moved or made a sound and the tension is palpable. As their weapons transform into their familiar hands, Maka looks from Kid to Black*Star as they take up positions in a triangular formation. His posture relaxes and his eyes close, a loose grip on Tsubaki’s hilt; everything about Black*Star screams comfort and ease and Maka can’t help herself from the wave of irritation and envy that overcomes her. How can he be comfortable and at ease when something so serious and crucial to the fate of the world looms ahead?

The words come out before she can stem them, “Do it properly, Black*Star…” _Take this seriously._

He only opens one eyes and mutters that he does it right every time and Maka’s ire ripples through a twitch in her eye. Regardless, Stein tells them to begin and Maka slips into the hazy resonation with Soul. Her soul sense easily finds Kid’s more complete and natural resonation with Liz and Patti, cool purple waves undulating with a steady rhythm and perfectly symmetrical. The connection between their two partnerships is smooth.

It’s when Black*Star reaches out, or maybe they’ve reached out to him, that the network crackles and rips.

They are all sweating from concentration, Maka huffing a little to try and regain her center. She avoids eye contact and tries to focus again. Their second attempt goes as well as the first, splintering when Black*Star’s soul tries to reach for both Maka and Kid and their connection. This time, his higher frequency is more jarring as their concentration snaps. Black*Star and Kid take defensive stances immediately, but Maka hones in on the problem.

“Would you do it more seriously?!” She is taking steps towards Black*Star with heavy boots, white-knuckled around her weapon. He's so confident and so settled that her senses go white around the edges from frustration.

“I am…” but all Maka hears is a whine.

“It’s because you’re always doing whatever you like! Try to match with us for once!” _Why do you have to push so far ahead when we’ve only just gotten here?!_ She’s almost up in his face when he finally turns. His face looks rumpled, pupils contracted around burning aqua eyes.

‘Why the hell should I have to match up with you? I don’t need such a shitty partnership!” Maka recoils and it is just as well as Kid steps between them. Black*Star’s face clears a bit when faced with Death’s son and he tries to laugh it off, but Maka is still boiling, hotter now that Black*Star wouldn’t admit fault.

Stein calls for a break and tells them to go cool off, but Maka follows the professor anyway. Soul stays with the group; Maka’s shoulders are square. She doesn’t need backup.

“Professor, if we continue like this, we won’t succeed and I’ll be cut from your class. I don’t want that.” She breathes in deep and says a sentence she had honestly not thought she would ever say. “Please remove Black*Star from our team.”

Stein’s face sinks into a deep frown. “You came here just to tell me that?” His voice is muted by the thick foliage and stillness of the forest. “The one who’s left the team is you. If you understand, hurry along and go back.”

Maka doesn’t want to hear it. How can she have left if Black*Star won’t listen, won’t cooperate?

“Are you going to restrain Black*Star’s power? Do you know who the best attacker in your cell is?”

She pauses, remembering the mystery assignments Black*Star comes back from, bruised and cut. She thinks about the perfectly straight spine suspended in a handstand outside their classroom and the undefeated record he holds.She remembers the soul strengthening potion he drank and Stein’s amazement, the constant and seemingly exponential increase of Black*Star’s power.

“Why is is always about Black*Star…” She doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but Stein’s frown lessens a little.

“This lesson is about sensing something far more fundamental… if you don’t understand, you should leave now.”

There is a moment and Maka weighs his words. She touches her wrist then adjusts the glove. She turns and walks away from Stein, but speaks just loud enough to carry across the breeze.

“…I’ll do it.”

-

He’s expecting the second punch. He sees it like he sees his own reflection in the mirror, predictable and familiar. After all, he’s been punched by these tiny fists before. He lets it hit and skids back a few feet, relishing the bite of pain.

“Satisfied?” he asks, knowing she isn’t. He shouldn’t have provoked her, but whatever is eating at Maka is now corroding any chances they have to get stronger as a team. Black*Star needs every advantage he can get. So he pokes and prods, finding more words to fuel her flames. “Even though it’s you, Mak… if you wanna keep going, you’d better ask to duel.”

It’s the flashbacks to the duels, internal and external, failure or success looming, that push at his frayed edges. “’Cause I’ll really beat the shit out of you!”

Her immediate recoil surprises him, having expected another attack. Black*Star has no idea what is going through her head; for once, he can't read her. She steps away and starts walking back out into the forest while he avoids eye contact with their teammates looking on. He’s brooding and he knows it, but he needs Maka to get over whatever it is that’s stopping their progress. They all do.

She’s about 10 yards away when she stops and screams. He knows that scream. He watched her do it plenty of times when they were younger: over her parents’ divorce, her father, whatever had gone particularly wrong that day. Maka’s crying. She doesn’t do it so much anymore, but Black*Star feels a pang knowing he brought this one on somehow.

Maka bolts and Tsubaki smacks him over the head. His repentance shows in his eyes and the downturn of the split corner of his lip.

“Sorry… Can you take care of it?”

Maka doesn’t like to accept help, especially his, and will never ask.

-

Tsubaki is a calm presence next to her. She doesn’t want to talk, but Tsubaki has always been good at getting people to open up with her patient ways. Maka’s nose is still red from sniffling- not crying never crying- and her eyes glaze over as she gazes out from her perch about Death City.

“If even Tsubaki can’t understand Black*Star, there’s no way I can…” Tsubaki chuckles and leans closer to Maka, a little conspiratorial in her tone, light and teasing.

“Is that so? You two always get along so well. Is it so bad for friends to misunderstand each other now and then?”

Maka’s head dips a little lower, thinking. Black*Star and she had a fundamentally different relationship than most of the other members of their team. There was something she was missing… Stein said… Stein said the lesson was on something more fundamental than power. Before Maka and Black*Star had power, what was there?

_ Ah. I was in such a hurry, there was something I missed. _

Maka trusts Black*Star as her friend, has all their time together.

“That’s it!”

He trusted his own abilities, but also in his teammates. Maka needed to trust him as a teammate, an equal.


	9. Tempest

Maka’s face is still a little swollen and she swears a tooth is loose, but her smile is a bit more carefree than usual. The tension she carried over Black*Star’s advancement past her is eased. She’s glad for the reprieve when their cell is sent with Kilik’s to retrieve the Demon Tool Tempest just north of the Alaskan border.

The bite of the arctic air numbs her cheeks and nose, burrowing into her teeth. It makes her want to wiggle that molar with her tongue even more. It distracts a bit from the helpless feeling she has as Stein and Marie push through the outer wall of the swirling magnetic storm protecting Tempest, or “Brew” as they’ve been instructed to call it. If she steps closer to Black*Star, he doesn’t say anything.

Fifteen minutes later, they are back to back inside the afterimage city with Kid, having sent Stein and Marie out. It only takes a moment of confrontation with the bulky mosquito man for Black*Star to surge forward, swiping while yelling back at them.

“We’ve only got 10 minutes! TEN FREAKING MINUTES! Even if I unleash my awesomeness for a second, 10 minutes isn’t long!” He keeps pushing, slashing the mosquito’s beefy arms and making him slide back. “We’re limiting ourselves to being kids and living easy! That’s what makes us ‘just kids’ to him!”

Black*Star was taking this seriously. Maka feels justified in allowing her Faith to be placed in him. Kid gets a clear shot and Black*Star cuts in again. Maka summons Witch Hunter from her resonation with Soul and uses Black*Star as a springboard. The devastation is great, but when the dust clears, the bulky mass of a man is bulging even further outward.

A combination attack cuts off the mosquito’s monologuing, but his charge is straight for Maka. Black*Star intercepts him and she has time to get to her feet as he’s thrown to the side. Saved again. A second rampage throws them all off balance. When Soul takes the helm, playing the tune of their souls, their cell moves without effort, seamless attack after attack, feint after feint. Maka ducks, Black*Star swipes, Kid comes from behind with a devastating blow. There are no gaps between notes, each movement staccato and legato in equal measure, bellicose and bending into each chord. The music overcomes her and the terms and transitions are lost to her and without meaning other than stab, slash, and run.

The fight bridges into individual partnerships resonating as Black*Star is forced into Dark Arm mode with Tsubaki. After his move, the mode disengages swiftly, the cesura a moment to breathe. Kid’s Death Cannon blows off the mosquito’s arms, deciso. There is a Grand Pause, but Soul’s last note dies off with no reentry.

They are forced to retreat. It’s over and they’ve failed.

-

Black*Star clutches his chest when Tsubaki isn’t looking. He feels the strain on his soul every time he tries to exert himself in training. His suspension is at the week mark, Tsubaki’s leave of absence taking him to Japan, the motherland of his clan and Maka’s family. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be away from Death City, away from Maka and their friends. His suspension will be over next week, but if his soul is not strengthened, fortified before then… Black*Star doesn’t want to think about it.

His soul is splintering his glow is erratic. His progress and his training will all be for naught if he can't break through his own mind. The memories consumed by The Other flicker through his head at alarming speeds anytime his brain falls silent.

Right now, he is attempting to meditate in the small clearing just off the Nakatsukasa grounds behind the main house. He wants to clear his mind, but past battles rise like the departed in the field of his mind. They are ghostly and constantly repeating; he can’t swipe them away and he can’t make the silent terrors stop. His every failure up until that point replays and he can’t concentrate.

Black*Star pushes his air out noisily through his nose and opens his eyes. He brings his hands in front of himself and holds them palm up, as if the image of holding a weapon would go away. Blue-green eyes trace down the inevitable path and he finds himself unwrapping his wrist to stare at offensive red Letters.

_ I’ll turn them black. _

The red he despises becomes his anchor and the ghosts scatter without notice.

“I will turn my Words black.”

Black*Star takes a deep breath and settles his soul.

-

Maka is at a loss. Not only have they been failing, but their teams splitting up, breaking apart. What was the point of all the training, all the bonding? What was it all for when they were so easy to tear asunder? Kid was always away now, a serious and dark look on his face at all moments. Liz and Patti left on their own to train at Death’s School. Black*Star was gone, Tsubaki with him. Crona was gone and somehow that was worse. Worse because at least she could be assured Black*Star would be back; he always came back, even when she didn’t want him there.

The knowledge that Crona was with Medusa again gave Maka a goal. With everything else falling apart, the only easy thing to focus on was regaining their friend. If Maka could just bring Crona back, maybe everyone would be whole again. She has to hold onto that.

Missions helped. She took Soul on any extra lesson that even alluded to Crona or Medusa or the Kishin. The stress is too much when a harbinger of Madness, a Clown, pulls on her conflicted soul.

Everyone is together again, yes, but they’re all at her feet and what did you do, Maka? Why are they _dead, Maka? You killed them, didn’t you, Maka?_

She’s a child and her father, younger and less haggard, a wedding ring on his finger, is prone before her. She can’t protect anyone. She’s still small and Black*Star’s dead body is phasing from chubby cheeks to awkward preteen, stiller than she’s ever seen. She’s just relying on people, relying on Soul.

She is the Clown. She is Madness.

It’s a G-note that saves her- ‘ _her note_ ,’ Soul says- but she doesn’t understand what that means and so says nothing on it.


	10. Castle

The dark cloth is itchy and her warm breath washes back over her face, condensing and making her uncomfortable. She just wants to rip off the mask and stop the subterfuge, but Maka grits her teeth and continues following Medusa’s orders. Her soul is tingling, stretched out in tendrils, searching for Arachne. There are hundreds of souls in the castle, but aside from Medusa, no witch yet.

Maka frowns as she feels the small unfamiliar souls moving towards one area, the front entrance, if she had to guess. A powerful but calm soul is headed there as well and Maka wonders for a minute who it is, as that particular individual doesn’t belong here. A quiet storm front, unassuming but potent. She finds herself drawn to follow the snowy white soul's movements and a pulse ripples over it.

She jolts, a quiet noise of surprise escapes her. The pulse hits again, from a very familiar source.

Soul’s asking her what she senses, but Maka just smiles, unseen underneath that forsaken mask. He returned as she knew he would. The pulse runs through her soul sense again, as if the make sure she knew he was there. There is a fresh static texture to his soul that raises the hairs on her neck and arms under the thick black cloak.Black*Star always came back, always came through in times of need.

-

Black*Star stands across the battlefield from Mifune for the third time. The samurai blocks his path, but the doubt he held in his soul is gone.

_ Black*Star, why are you fighting? _ To seize power. _Why do you seek My Power?_ To protect those important to me.

_ Your name is Dark World- destined to snatch other’s aspirations away, to live in the darkness. _ I will achieve aspirations others have lost, live by rising above the darkness.

Let me see The Other once more.

Mifune’s blue eyes bore into him, but Black*Star has stared into the soul of an Orge, dragged under the calm waters of his weapon’s soul by devoured terror until he himself had devoured _them_. Black*Star, in his almost fifteen years, sees the lives of countless others flash before him. The regret, their wavelengths of defeat and resentment, the despair... all have burned in the pit of his stomach, reaching and scratching at his heart and thrumming through his veins.

So Black*Star’s blue-green eyes blink clear, free of tears of those who fell, gazing steadily at Mifune. “The path I follow is not the path of a demon who kills living things, but the path of the sword that revives the dead.”

Tsubaki’s presence is powerful and seeping into his soul as they slip into resonance. Mifune’s grip on his sword shows Black*Star the razor edge, the blunt side reserved for children. Black*Star is no longer a child; he is a soldier.

The toothpick dips in his mouth as Mifune speaks. “There won’t be a next time.”

There are shadows and flashes of metal and Black*Star’s soul is pulsing.

-

Maka shucks the dark fabric thankfully, wiping the sweat from her face in the process. The barriers are down and she’s spreading her soul in search of Crona’s wavelength, seeking that shred of proof that her Faith hasn’t been misplaced in Medusa. The wisp of her soul stretched into the lair before them is ensnared. Fine threads wind around and into her senses. The strings slip through her soul and down into her joints. Every movement is useless, each command send by her brain, every shake of her soul is now controlled by another.

Arachne has tangled her into her web again.

The familiar feeling is just as sickening and horrible as the first, only much worse. She was paralyzed against Giriko, but now she is utterly useless, a puppet dangling on lax strings. Maka is powerless, again, and she can’t do more than curse and curse and curse in the confines of her mind. Her grasp is slipping, tongue heavy and dry like wood. Her soul is receding and she can’t feel anything outside her own stiff body.

_ No. _

She won’t let this happen again. The small flicker of her soul whips out in a flash of white, expanding and burning. The threads, she has to find every single one, every line that is invading her and violating her. She will never let the Madness take her over, she won’t fall to a mere witch like Arachne.

The blaze is quick and Maka stands tall.

-

“I abandoned my indecision long ago, Black*Star.” Mifune’s stance is still and ready. “Why do you still hesitate?”

The shadows of Tsubaki’s blade expand with the force of his soul, cling to his neck, shrouding him in their dark color. The blackness reminds him of his name, reminds him of the color he yearns for under the wraps on his wrist.

Red blood is running into his eyes, but his gaze is locked on his opponent.

“I have no indecision.”

-

Arachne’s wavelength is repulsive and all-encompassing, skittering over Maka’s soul like the tiny spiders she’s hidden herself in. The squirming runs up her spine and Soul’s scythe form is in her hand, warming to the tang of Madness.

“I shall become the mother of all.”

Medusa drops at Maka’s side as her spindly sister coalesces before her. Green eyes scorch with the swipe of a scythe blade, splitting open demons only they can see. The black mass offers no resistance, Arachne having abandoned physical form. A single slash of the Mad shadow hits Maka harshly in the face.

The Clown flashes in her mind.

-

His fingers are broken, the deep cut into the arch of his foot aches, and the slit across his face leaks red, but Tsubaki’s blade is light and Mifune is a blur of movement he can only counter half the time. Black*Star is landing his strikes, but Mifune raises his arms and slashes downward into his preparation.

The star is broken.

The reaction is immediate: he leans into the strike, backing into Mifune’s stance to push the samurai’s dangerous hands out of the way. His next strike is decisive, back and up, angled through the ribs.

He is boneless, hands slipping off Tsubaki’s hilt, but his opponent catches him and they sink to the ground together.

“Magnificent…”

-

She can feel the souls overcome with Madness. An intricate network sinking below a dark web while only she can stay afloat, buoying Soul. How could they raise the others out of the murky depths? Her wavelength is her life vest and she needs Soul to share it.

Soul’s piano plays in ‘her key,’ but Maka just wants it to work. The soft etude stretches her wavelength in a particular pattern, down Arachne’s threads. Maka gets over the horrid feeling of touching those strings again for the sake of her friends.

-

White gauze covers Black*Star’s right eye, but his left is only tinged pink. The unsteady undulating waves of Madness are sweeping over him, but his mind is set. Nygus, hovering over him with bandages and medical tape, drops both to hold the ground and her head. He grips the lapel of her field jacket, uncaring of the two broken fingers underneath that she has just splinted. He hoists himself to stand and hums.

His voice is gravelly from the blood he’s gurgled but he speaks loud enough for Nygus to hear, “Come on, show some strength of character…” His soul spreads out in waves, crackling in the air. He’s forced the Madness from his own mind, and he will force it out of those around him. He can do that much, at least. Sid’s voice echoes around him, unintelligible to him as he falls into a sitting position.

His wounds are aggravated, bleeding as hard as his breath is coming in and out of his lungs.

“The rest is up to you, Soul… Maka…”

There’s only a minute until Black*Star’s forced soul is overcome by a soft song. He relinquishes the hold he had to keep the Madness at bay and relaxes as Maka’s wavelength sweeps over him. It's a cool balm that soothes his simultaneousrestlessness and exhaustion.

“Heh… what a stupid tune.”

-

The corrupted soul Arachne has become is in front of Maka, sizzling from contact with her wavelength.

“This is what happens when you try to creep into the cracks in people’s hearts.”

Small cracks are breaking out over the witch’s face. The resonating rate with Soul builds as she prepares to strike. His form changes and she feels a layer of Madness hum above her skin, reigned in and coalesced.

“I’ll be taking your soul.”


	11. Angel

They are The Sown, white uniforms crisp and new, the pure color at odds with their profession. Under the dull blues and whites, Maka feels the ache of Medusa’s last arrow, the consequence of her misplaced Faith. She was used and gained nothing again. Soul is a Deathscythe now, but there’s unfinished business.

Kid is gone. Witches shelter in Death’s School. Black*Star is only just recovered. Her soul has wings.

A target is painted on her back for all their enemies to see as her soul perception grows. Maka can’t help but want them to come to her. She wants answers, to find Crona, to stop the corruption of Asura. It’s overwhelming and she isn’t sure she’s up to the task.

She looks from the sky with clouds as fluffy as her imagined wings to the bench where a paper-wrapped parcel sits. It’s Black*Star’s uniform for their unit, signifying he is also a two-star technician as well. She exhales slowly. Her fingers unlace and she finds herself plucking at the edge of her glove.

She stares at her Words and tries to stem the wave of anxiety that flows over her. Somehow they’d scraped by in each of their battles, but with fifteen year olds rushing to the frontlines, could that luck hold out? Maka runs a finger over the Letters, stark on the vulnerable skin of her wrist. Her mouth sets in a stern line and she pulls the glove down, eyes away.

Maka picks up the parcel and heads to the infirmary room with Black*Star’s name on it.

-

The window is open and the cool breeze floats in, raising goosebumps on his arms. He’s finally free of gauze and medical tape, no more splints or redressing wounds. His skin is no longer discolored and most of the aches are gone. He’s meditating on the floor between his cot and the window when he hears steps outside the door. They’re light, but steady, until a small stutter at the door.

A small knock and the knob is turning and Maka walks in. When he doesn’t speak, she moves forward and places something on the cot and stands next to him. She’s on his ‘blind side’, but he doesn’t mind; Maka isn’t an enemy.

The lid on his right eye is still difficult to lift, though the eye was saved by Kim’s magic. So he turns his head to look at her with his left. She’s standing with her arms folded behind her back, weight mostly on one leg.

“We’re going back out to the field to train with Soul’s powers and my wings more,” she says. Her voice is kind of flat as though she’s talking about something other than she’s thinking. When she holds back her opinion. He wants to sigh at her and ask her what’s wrong, but they aren’t kids anymore, not really. She knows she can come to him if she wants to talk. “Your new uniform is in the package.”

“You always ruin the surprise, Mak.”

A little levity comes back to her. “I don’t ruin things… I’m an _angel…_ ”

She’s teasing, but now he’s suppressing a laugh and just ends up spitting through his lips as his shoulders shake.

“Sure, Mak, keep telling yourself that.”

“Does your shoulder hurt?” The abrupt change of direction and the sincerity and concern in her question snaps his spine straight. He remembers he isn’t wearing a shirt and his star tattoo is facing her, the deep slice through it still ragged on the edges. Black*Star steals a glance and finds relief that his wrist is covered.

“It’s healing.”

She hums and turns away. Maka’s taken one step before she’s tossing a ‘gotta train, see ya later’ over her shoulder. He stands as she gets to the door, still not facing him, a hand curled on the frame. He’s managed to open his right eye and Maka’s head turns enough to make eye contact. Her eyes flick away.

“Thank you, 'Star.” Her fingers tighten on the wood then relax. “For coming back.”

Then she’s gone and he’s left alone with an open window and the parcel on his infirmary bed, wrapped in brown paper. A soft tan scarf is folded on top of it, unmarked by Death’s insignia.

-

Maka flops on the cot of her room at the desert satellite campus. Her new uniform tie floats to land on the floor next to the bed and the buttons on her white jacket are undone. She’s staring at the ceiling, blearily, until a wave of irritation swells from the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, she’s on her elbows and knees on the thin mattress, punching the lumpy pillow with all she’s worth.

She knew people were after her, that there would be attempts on her life. She knew this, but still tried to cling to a last shred of innocence. She wanted to be an angel, soft and sweet, pure.

“Angel, my _ass_!”

Her fist clenches and unclenches as she tries to steady her breathing. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and she just didn’t want to let go, take the leap like everyone else had.

She leans back and slips the jacket off, fingering a small tear in the new fabric. It joins the tie on the floor.

“Heh…” the small depreciative laugh echoes in the empty walls and she lies back down, curled on her side towards the wall. Maka plucks at the closure of the band on her wrist until it comes off.

She wants to blame the way she feels on the fact that it is days from the anniversary of Asura’s resurrection, three days more from her fifteenth birthday. The childhood she tried so hard to run from, to become a technician, is fleeing _her_ now and she can’t grab it.

She has to let go.

The dark Lettering on her wrist is calling her, demanding her complicity. She runs her forefinger over the Script, bold and black. It tingles, but Maka doesn’t know if it is a sign or if she’s managed to tickle herself.

It’s late though, so Maka tries to shove her thoughts away into a box in the back of her head, tucks her Marked wrist under her pillow and falls asleep in her partial uniform, on top of the covers.

-

It’s so obviously a date that Black*Star wonders why Patti and he are even there. Liz and Tsubaki are sitting hip to hip on the ledge of the fountain in the brightest and most open courtyard in Death City’s food and art district. He’s trying to give them some privacy, but he accepted the invitation before he knew what was going on. So he sits a bit away, munching on some ice cream, watching Patti run from booth to booth.

He’s sore from his last sparring session with Stein, but it is the kind of ache that needs to be learned and overcome with repetition. His soul is strong and Stein is forming and shaping him into a more finely tuned weapon. The speed at which he can pulse out his wavelength is increasing, the lull and recharge is lessening and his movements without handling Tsubaki are smoother, more fluid than ever. The doctor is relentless, but a good teacher.

The booth Patti is hassling has a flyer pinned to the wooden post, offering discounts for the week up to the creation of Death City. That’s right, he thinks. The Kishin was released the same day they were celebrating Death’s founding a school here. It’s been two years already.

He finishes off the cone thoughtfully. Maka’s birthday is in a few days.

As if the thought of her could summon Maka here, Liz’s voice carries over to his ear: “Maka might be feeling worn out after turning Soul into a Deathscythe… Hopefully, she won’t burn out.”

Liz is talking to Tsubaki, but he can’t help interjecting.

“It’ll only be temporary… She’ll be back with us soon.”


	12. Spine

It’s the unsteady footsteps that catch his attention. Black*Star is already regretting coming on this mission before he hears the tentative stutter stepping of Crona. He resigns himself when those small steps bring him face to face with the Black Blood incarnate. Tsubaki is ready in his hand, but he stops himself when he sees the mangled and liquid wings hovering around Crona with their third arm and Mad gaze.

His wrist is throbbing.

“What the hell’s with that look? Maka’s gonna cry.”

Black*Star’s face buries into the tan scarf, but his eyes blaze near aqua as Crona refuses to respond, the blackness of their veins splintering out of their body. Another arm sprouts as a Clown rises from the floor and becomes a second blade, then a third.

The screaming resonance of Madness surges forward, but Black*Star just dodges in place. Stein is faster than this. The screaming continues as the debris flies. He wishes they would just _shut up_.

He didn’t come here for this. He came because he was told. His right wrist is insistent and he’s having flashbacks to the basement two years ago, to running from this wild opponent who scared him, to running from his fate. He isn't here for a rematch or even to correct his own mistakes. Not today, anyway. Before he can even think, he’s sucking in air and screaming back. He’s pushing his soul through his right fist and slamming it into a sallow cheek, an emaciated chest. Each hit is like punching lead, but he can’t let up.

Because he’s here for her.

“You bastard! Is this what you wanted?! Just to gain this much power, _you’d betray Maka_?!”

His fist crashes into Crona’s sternum and the waif-looking Demon Blade is sent flying into the far wall. His knuckles are bleeding, the needles that sprang from Crona’s armor harsh and unforgiving. Well, Black*Star isn’t feeling very forgiving at the moment either.

“…what are you talking about?” It’s a soft voice, devoid of the stuttering he’s used to hearing from Crona. “What the hell…”

The dark figure walks forth from the dust, face completely devoid of emotion.

“Who the hell is ‘Maka’?”

Black*Star sees red.

-

Soul’s hand is heavy and too warm on her shoulder. The two witches from the club her father frequents just walked through Death’s Door with Blair, invited. Maka is finding it hard to concentrate with the stalker that’s around the bend, who has been following them all week, but she refocuses when Marie leaves the room in a huff.

“That’s an important meeting… I bet even Papa is taking it seriously.”

Soul is whining at her to go home when a familiar presence grazes her outstretched soul. The texture is electric against her soul sense. Her surprise makes her stand and the back of her head cracks into Soul’s nose.

“Black*Star…”

He walks to the door with Tsubaki and proceeds to kick it open. Maka just sighs, while Soul suggests they might as well follow. That stalker is still there and Maka relents.

When they get inside, there’s confetti on the floor around Death’s coffee table, the Frog Witch Eruka and Kim are there, and her father’s tie is wrapped around his head. Some serious meeting this is. She finds herself standing next to Black*Star and he nudges her with his elbow.

Something is off about him, like he wants to tell her something important, but can’t. The stifled expression screws up his nose before he turns blue-green eyes on her. They’re serious for a beat before they crinkle in a little more truthful expression.

“Happy belated birthday, Mak.”

-

The world is so red, red rivers, red soil and red sky. His blood is roiling under the oppressive color. He just wants to kill something. That color is just everywhere. His skin flushes with his ire, trying to sweat out the color.

He wants to escape it. Red red red red red. Why was it red? He wants to rip off the bandage and scratch out the Letters that match the palette of this forsaken place so well. He is so pissed off.

Tsubaki’s manly scream scrapes his eardrum and he squeezes his eyes shut. There. Black.

With the darkness enveloping his sight, he takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Slower. In, out.

“Ugh… so what’s next?” He still hates the color wrapped and draped over everything in this chapter, but something is missing. Two somethings. “Where’d Maka and Soul go?”

-

She is so tired. Her trust is worn out, hands dry and cracking from handing it out. She is done, she just wants to sit. Sit a while and hold herself together. Soul always led anyway. She couldn’t remember a time he didn’t.

When was the last time she kept a sliver of trust for herself?

She’s been handing it out so freely, so often. Nothing is left.

Giriko is invading her space, unpleasant and disgusting. His wavelength is repulsive, but Maka couldn’t care. The Chain Saw Puppeteer isn't asking her for trust or a piece of her soul, just death and that's easy. He’s screaming then Soul is there kicking him away and transforming into a scythe. Soul’s voice screeches over the whining of Giriko’s chains, bellowing order after order. Always in the lead, depending on her to trust him.

The realization creates a hole in her defense and she goes flying through the cabinets.

“Concentrate on the fight!” _You coward, you sly woman, always depending on men…_

Suddenly, Soul is human again, standing in front of her. A spine trying to stand strong.

-

They land in a muddled heap, Maka sprawled on Black*Star’s lap, Tsubaki over hers. Her right eye is full of blood, but even she can see the large blunt cleaving teeth of the beast that snaps right in her and Black*Star’s faces. He rips her to her feet and she tries not to wince as Soul hurries to support her. Her wounds ache, the disbelief and endorphin rush of watching Giriko's soul explode are wearing off.

Chaos is everywhere. Their teachers are scattered and bleeding into the forest floor. They’re telling them to run, but they are The Sown. They don't have the luxury to run anymore. Maka looks up to see Kid and Black*Star take the forward guard.

Her scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck and, in their opponent’s line of fire, in the face of their latest and largest threat, his spine is utterly straight.


	13. Beacon

Kim and Jackie follow them to Moscow. While the witch and lantern tend to those injured by Crona, Stein leads them to the warehouse door. The Madness is eking out of the cracks in the doors. Her gloves are heavier due to the cold, but Soul’s come out of his pockets bare. He’s broken into a cold sweat and gripping her hard like a lifeline as they walk in.

The thick miasma of Madness is latent in the air. The technician and weapon in charge of the Russian outpost are encased in spheres of Black Blood and Maka’s soul can feel the screeching of theirs, clawing at their prison. Completely insane, but left alive.

Soul is a scythe and they crack the casing and that’s when everything goes to hell.

The instant his blade skims the black globe, he reverts and grabs her by the hair. His expression is strained and their resonance broken. His pupils constrict and shake, unable to focus on one thing. Soul throws her to the side and he’s yelling, the little Demon’s voice overlaid on his own.

There is a ragged blade extending from his chest- his scar- and he has a suddenly vacant expression. The Madness is pulsing, bubbling from his old wounds. His attacks on Stein are a flurry, but uncoordinated and unpracticed. Maka rushes to transmit her wavelength into the professor, but Soul is creating a keyboard out of his scythe and flinging crooked notes at them.

She knows this attack, but it seems less powerful than when her soul was guiding those chords. She also knows, can see the tiny light that is his soul. He’s fighting.

Just like that, it’s over and the Madness isn’t propagating. Now safe to approach, Maka chops him over the head.

“That’s for acting cool after the Madness settled down.”

Soul is defending himself with arms outstretched and for a moment, Maka thinks his wrists are as bare as his hands.

-

“Maka, calm down and listen,” Marie starts, hands out in front of her to placate the girl. Black*Star’s eyes narrow. Who tells someone to calm down before they even say anything? “Crona has been added to Death’s List. The Sown are to reap their soul.”

Maka doesn’t say a word, but she’s just to his right, and her head turns to the floor. Her fists tighten and her shoulders shake. Her face is scrunching up, but she’s trying hard to fight it, like when she didn’t want to cry on the day her mother walked out. Black*Star held her until she stopped shaking that day, but he doesn’t know if he can do that anymore. Murmurs of sympathy sound around them, but he knows Maka isn't listening anymore.

He doesn’t leave her side as they return to the EAT student lounge where Kilik’s cell is waiting. She sits on the couch, Soul next to her and he takes up a post at her elbow, just shy of sitting on the couch arm. Maka alternates betweenclenching the hem of her skirt and securing her gloves higher up on her wrists.

Kid walks in with his weapons and the mood stagnates. He’s Death’s son, a god; surely he can get them more time.

“…what Crona did is unforgivable.”

Maka sinks into herself even more then. Crona’s crimes are listed and as Maka retreats further into her shell, Black*Star finds his arm reaching out and gripping the front of Kid’s black turtleneck.

“Watch it! You came here just to say that?!” He doesn’t want to defend Crona, not after what he’s seen, but the cold attitude is more than even he is capable of. There's a reason he never brought up his encounter with the Demon Blade to Maka.Kid doesn’t back down from his position, but when their meeting is over, Maka’s eyes are focused and blazing.

He knows she will try to find Crona first.

All he can do is press his mouth in a firm line and walk away, hand linked around his itchy wrist behind his head.

-

_ I have to find Crona first. _

A piece of her Faith is still firmly in the pockets of the Demon Blade and she needs to see if it was misplaced herself. No second hand accounts, no circumstantial evidence that could be the result of Medusa’s manipulation. She _needs_ this.

Black*Star was the last one to leave, blue-green meeting her eyes in a knowing look. All the more reason to get this done quickly. She waits with Soul in silence until she can’t sense anyone between them and the wide balcony on Death’s School’s highest floor.

“We will search for Crona with my soul perception at full range.”

Soul’s threaded sound gives her lines to spread along. The web is still too reminiscent of Arachne's sticky silk, but Maka presses on.The tiny glows of souls grow more numerous and pulse gently as her spirit touches each one to check recognition. There is a bright one on the outskirts of town whose familiarity beckons her. The beacon is Black*Star and his soul is cool to the touch when not ready for battle.

She lingers a moment, reveling in the comfort and familiarity before extending so their web becomes a star field. Foreign souls racing by. Images of places she’s never seen. Eyes, the Madness.

Suddenly, she is staring at the moon. Staring with her soul, green eyes wide, there is a soul festering there.

Not Crona, but someone else. She takes a shaky step away from Soul and breaks off their resonance. The shock is too much.

“I found him… the Kishin…”


	14. Castaway

Maka is tired and worn around the edges, prone to snapping and biting at anyone who pushes the wrong button. Except that now, most of her buttons are wrong. The cross-wiring gets worse each time she stretches her soul out to find Crona, each time the mission to the moon is raised, each time Kid refuses to meet her eyes. Having a public announcer call her out to meet with her father is just the latest trigger to another bad mood.

She goes anyway, because her father will go to the moon, because he’ll be in danger and he is still her father. The sun is snickering as it slips beneath the horizon and paints the sky in reds. When she arrives, Spirit is leaning out over the balcony, relaxed. When he turns to face her, the stress is visible in his face. His smile is closed-lipped and restrained and his eyes are sunken and tired.

“Maka, I wanted to see you no matter what.”

Maka steps next to him and for the first time she realizes that she’s taller than his shoulder, slouching though he is. “You’re going to the moon, right?”

“There are a lot of things going on right now. It’ll be the first foreign mission I’ve taken in a long time…” his voice is a bit softer than usual, more serious. “…plus this is important.”

His change in attitude weighs on her shoulders and she thinks about how Liz and Patti were sitting in the student lounge, writing their wills. Will her father give her one as well? Will it need to be fulfilled, read to her after the battle is over?

He reaches into his suit jacket, fumbling for the breast pocket of a clean pressed green shirt, the same color of her eyes. “There’s something I want to give you before I… go.”

She can’t look him in the face as he withdraws his hand. A small part of her is relieved to see no official envelope or stack of papers. In his hand is a small ring and beneath the cuff of his jacket and dress shirt she can see the edges of his Words.

“You probably don’t want to receive this, but it’s the wedding ring I gave your mother,” he laughs a little, self-depreciating, and a pang in Maka reminds her of lying on a cot with a hole in her uniform. “She sent it back after the divorce.”

He holds the trinket up, a thin silver band, no longer shiny. The motion draws her attention to his wrist again, where his Letters are now in plain sight, as they always were: _The Most_. He’s still giving that small weak smile and his gaze is somewhere past the tiny ring.

“We married when I was young and completely broke. I bought this cheap thing on the street from some old lady. It’s supposed to ward off Madness; see the little engraving inside?” He is placing the ring in her palm. Maka looks at it carefully, wondering if such a tiny thing ever fit on her mother’s hand. “Your mother is strong enough to not fall into Madness, so she probably didn’t need it… She probably sensed that the world’s being engulfed by Insanity right now and made sure to send it back for you.”

Spirit isn’t looking at her, continuing to chuckle weakly. Maka is not sure how to feel. This piece of her mother is what she wants, _has_ wanted, but the ring that fits snug on her finger feels like it was cast away. Before her train of thought moves forward, Spirit is speaking again.

“Maka, I’m so glad you’re my daughter.”

Then she’s in his arms and the height she gained doesn’t matter. She is still a little girl.

“You grew and became so strong.”

-

_ Who the hell is ‘Maka’? _

He doesn’t know what to expect when Maka finds Crona, but he knows it will not be what she wants. The unstable figure he found months ago with the unsteady footsteps is not the same as the Crona that was with them before the resurrection. Black*Star can only assume that Crona has sunk deeper into the tar pits of Madness since then.

But this is Maka’s mission and he is there to support her. He watched the zeppelin raise and head to the moon, but felt no regret to keep his feet on the earth. Tsubaki and he are the only ones that have seen Crona in person. His Words guide him to follow the Black Blood. Maka’s stubborn expression had not changed since Kid had left their meeting of The Sown.

Maka splits their squad up and he knows she wants to find Crona first. After all, they are on Death’s List. He catches her elbow before she walks away.

“Call for me if something happens.”

“‘Star…”

“You sense them, right?”

Maka doesn’t nod, but the lack of surprise at his question seals the response. She turns on her heel and Black*Star follows with Soul and Tsubaki trailing. The church they arrive at is ancient and haunting in its beauty. Maka is climbing the stone steps, but Black*Star stays back. He already knows. He can hear the unsteady steps shuffling on old tiled floors.

He can only hear the slightest mumbling inside with Soul talking quietly with Tsubaki, when a burst of power rips through the foundation of the building. The three of them rush the front doors, but as they get there the giant wooden structure gives way and splinters in half.

It’s as he feared; Crona looks worse off than before. Black*Star can’t risk anything more as he calls for his weapon. Maka is running out, still trying to reach Crona with words, but thorny vines whip out of Crona’s veins and knock her to the side. Tsubaki hasn’t listened to him so as the Demon Blade takes flight, he jumps.

His kick doesn’t slow their ascent and without Tsubaki’s help, he can’t even pretend to fly. He lands next to a screaming Maka, holding his wrist.

“Crona, you’re such a fool! I don’t care about your disposal or the order of this world. We’re going to the moon as soon as possible!”

Her green eyes are set to the sky and Black*Star straightens next to her.


	15. Weakness

Black*Star is hanging like a phone charm off the winged end of Soul. When they come under fire, Maka thinks it is time to cut the dead weight. So she flings him straight into the oncoming destructive beams of energy. Soul is already working on inserting threads into the crescent shaped weaponry so he can play them to his own tune. She sweeps down to insert herself between Stein and her father and the horde of Clowns ahead.

She is hacking through them with the viciousness and brute force she applied in the days before she could resonate with Soul fully. Soul is busy laying down protective fire with the weird crescents and Black*Star is a few hundred yards away as far as she can tell. Even if she couldn’t sense his soul, there are corrupted-soul corpses flying into the air in large arcs.

When the witches arrive, the counterattack begins in full force as the rest of The Sown join Maka and Black*Star and their weapons.

Maka steps up against two Clowns as they begin to merge into a naked mass of Madness. The nine tails of the woman-shaped corruption slash harshly against her defense, but Black*Star is rushing under her guard in the split second the Clown takes time to adjust. His grin is huge, but his eyes go wide when the tails turn out to be a distraction from a crescent beam charged in his face. The tails block his exit and Maka can only scream his name.

She had no reason to worry. Tsubaki’s spinning Moonlit Leaf form is hanging from his wrist, dissipating the energy and launching him into an attack. His soul-charged kicks leave the main body of the Clown splintering and missing body parts. Maka takes the opportunity to step in with a Demon Hunter. The slice is clean and the last Clown is down.

As the body falls and disintegrates, that feeling of Madness ripples over her- the Kishin is awake.

And it’s coming.

-

Black*Star lets Maka’s wavelength wrap around him with Soul’s amplification. It feels good, like a cool cloth pressed on the back of his neck. If he doesn’t have to concentrate on hardening his mind so tightly, he can react faster. He trusts Maka to keep him from Madness and hallucination.

“The Kishin’s wavelength was suppressed? This is… Crona!”

She’s dropping Soul’s blade to the ground, lax grip, and he’s moving forward.

“Did something happen?” No response. “Hey, is Crona alright?”

“I can’t understand this…” Black*Star can almost hear the gears turning in her head when Kid cries out and points at the moon’s mouth. Crona is there.

The Madness wavelength that expands from the Demon Blade’s perch on the moon’s incisor threatens to push even him back. Kid is calling for a retreat of those with weak hearts as Maka’s protection can’t hold over them. Black*Star can only quirk a wry smile as Maka remains at his side, determined.

“Obviously, we will remain here. Hurry up and get them out of here,” she snaps.

There’s a flash of light as Free engages his spatial magic, then everyone is gone and Black*Star stands alone with only Spirit, Maka, Soul and Tsubaki.

Crona’s emotionless voice cuts the silence, “My Black Blood cannot be stopped…”

Black*Star clenches a fist, but releases it as Maka takes a step forward. “What will you do, Maka?” He’s looking at the back of her pigtails and black trench coat like in the basement, when he was thirteen and didn’t realize his Path would lead him here. “If it was just Asura, I would just kick his ass without any problems, but…” He’s talking out of his ass again, but he has the training to back it up now. He’s done all he can to prepare for his Words, red or not.

Just as back then, in the dark and dank basement under Death’s School, Maka’s eyes gain an edge and she turns that fiery green on Crona.

“Seems like talking won’t do anything now.” The resemblance to their situation of four years ago is uncanny, until Maka opens her mouth again. “Black*Star, Tsubaki… would you help me?”

“You can put your faith in me!”

-

Something in Maka’s soul jumps when Black*Star grins at her, but she puts it aside and faces Crona. She’s yelling so much her throat hurts, every piece of her anger is bubbling out of her mouth. If Crona is going to swallow the Kishin, if Crona is going to continue down this Path, Maka wants her Faith back.

She slams a steel-plated boot into a Black Blood hardened shoulder and follows with a knee and a kick to the face. She’s glad she came into this fight in battle gear and not formal wear and Patti’s sturdy yet soft leather boots. Crona is chiding her about not blocking their third blade, but Maka doesn’t even flinch as the razor edge swipes towards her. The static raising the hair on the back of her neck tells her enough, don't waste the energy.

Because Black*Star slips Tsubaki’s elegant blade into place to block it.

His kick sends Crona skidding back with a whine on their lips. “I would’ve gotten you if you’d been alone…”

“You’re right. But I’m not. Because I’m weak.” She’s always had to put her Faith into others. “And you’re not alone either!”

“I no longer have need of anybody else.” Crona is rushing at them, three blades extended. “I’M NOT WEAK LIKE YOU!!”

The Black Blood breaks free in thick sheets, amassing to a gargantuan creature with grotesque features. Black*Star steps forward and slices through it with a single stroke only to find a three-edged whirlwind bursting through the debris. When Black*Star is pushed back a single step, Maka steps in to stop the Mad rhythm. The Black Blood body doesn’t break or rip and she’s sent flying back, catching on the very end of the moon’s tooth.

She’s only got her tenuous grip on Soul and a single boot over the edge when a glossy spear coagulates and rockets straight for her. Maka is scrambling and the tip of the deadly attack is feet from her when it is knocked off course and snagged by a black chain. Black*Star reels the huge needle in and throws it back at Crona. He lands next to her.

“You all right? Hang in there.” She feels that tug in her soul again and tries to blame it on finally getting over the vertigo from nearlyfalling off the sheer cliff face. The skin on the back of her neck feels electrified, prickles in a good way.

Black*Star is always doing this for her, always there to save her. And Maka realizes she hasn’t ever thanked him.

“I owe you… You saved me in a similar way when we fought Free in London, didn’t you?” His blue-green eyes meet hers and there’s a smile crinkling the skin around them. “It wasn’t just that time either.”

She can’t help it; even as Crona is getting up from the rubble Black*Star’s last attack caused, she’s grinning at him.

“You’re always rescuing me. You must really like me, huh?”

The flush he gets is endearing, spreading all the way across his face and dusting his nose like when they were little kids and she embarrassed him in one way or another. The static on her skin tingles more when his soul stutters. “Eh?! Y-you’re really t-taking it the wrong way…” He’s tripping over his denial, but Maka doesn’t care; his faint freckles are obscured by pink.

The familiar presence of his soul and Soul’s and Tsubaki’s is enough to give her courage.


	16. Human

Ebony vines, spiked and dripping, rush Maka and Black*Star. They grit their teeth through the first volley, but Crona’s eyes are widening and ever darker. They cackle and the thorns whip into a tornado, and Black*Star jumps opposite of Maka, pressing back against the vines. They both land clear of the attack, but Crona’s voice carries over the sound of the debris settling.

“My thorns are poisonous, infected with my feelings, my Madness…”

As he takes a breath, Tsubaki’s blade scalds his hand straight through his glove. He sets her on the ground as Maka does the same with Soul. Their wavelengths have been knocked out of alignment.

“They were always clattering noisily against each other! You just _forced them to line up!”_ The sharp black cords wind behind Crona like a barbed wire fence then lash out and strip Tsubaki and Soul from their blistering hands. “You no longer need to interfere with anything else.”

Maka’s foot slides back and her voice is a bit tremulous when she says, “I’m supposed to keep fighting Crona without Soul..?”

Not a beat is missed as Black*Star steps in front of her, “I can fight without a weapon, so leave it to me.”

His spine is straight and Crona’s voice is warped and screeching, an unsymmetrical undulating web of thorns around them. “Connections bring nothing but pain-" spurs him into action. His soul crackles along his nerves and through his veins. Just before he makes contact with a wall of iron, the electric feeling traces his Letters.

The attack barely pushes Crona’s sharp defense back and the counterstrikes are quick and vicious like scorpion stings. He skids back towards Maka.

“Tearing you apart was so easy! PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS ALONE!” The Black Blood fires at them, but Black*Star doesn’t even need to dodge. Because they aimed at Maka. She can see them coming, but doesn’t have the agility to evade. He kicks the direct attack away, but takes a slice to his ankle to pay for it. “You fell for it! You’re always meddling in other people’s business! Get out of the way!”

Nothing Crona could spit at him would have made him move, made him leave Maka open to injury. Not when he could help it.

He’s strung up by his feet in the moment of weakness as the rose thorns entwine into a heavy arm of Black Blood. Black*Star grits his teeth; he can’t break through the vines even with his soul’s force. Then there’s a flash of red.

-

Her father is in front of her, arms blades to protect.

“I can’t! Crona is preventing soul wavelengths from matching!”

Spirit looks back at her softly, “Our wavelengths? No problem.” She’s reaching out before she really understands why. “Because you’re my daughter.” Her father is not blistering and a wave of easy feelings flow over her. Matching wavelengths is easy and natural in a way it hasn’t ever been with Soul.

Maka slashes against Crona’s self-created thorn prison, the heavier weight of Spirit’s blade adds power and momentum to her strikes. She is relentless; she has to be because Black*Star is defenseless and unable to affect any damage even if he wasn’t strung up, because Soul and Tsubaki are in danger, because Crona is out of control right now. Her Faith is with her father now and his with her. Maka channels her wavelength into a Witch Hunter, the glowing blade dissimilar to Soul’s.

The thorns are scattering, but Crona still stands and holds onto their captives. More, more. Her winged soul folds her father’s scythe and stretches it to new forms. No, she can’t stop there. Genie Hunter.

The final bramble is severed and her friends clatter to the ground.

“You can’t match! HOW?! You still match?!”

Spirit’s voice is tinted with demonsteel when he replies. “It’s because Maka and I are family: parent and child.” There is no malice, just a tone of gentleness. “It’s not a ‘bond,’ per se, but it is something that cannot be simply cut because you want to.”

The spiral happens quickly, too quick for Maka to follow. Crona is screaming and writhing. Strips of sallow flesh rip out of Crona’s back and encompass them. Maka is yelling and her father is even heavier in her hand with regret.

-

Black*Star screams for her as Maka’s back arches through the air. She lands on her feet hard as he rushes in front of her again. He barely makes it another step before Kid is skidding next to him. Something in him settles; their cell is whole again. He doesn’t have to do it on his own. Spirit is materializing and spouting about family wavelengths.

“We could never do it, your mother and me…” Spirit is raising his hand. “To make a partner stronger than a simple Deathscythe.” A long finger catches his blazer cuff and Black*Star sees Spirit’s Words: _The Most._

“We misinterpreted our Paths; my greatest bond is you, Maka.” Red hair shields his face, but Black*Star can hear a small tremor in his baritone. “Show this Kishin there are stronger ones.”

Maka’s mouth is set and the fiery power of Kishin’s swallowed partner rushes at them. Black*Star takes the vanguard, splitting the path and making room for Maka and Kid’s follow-up. The son of Death splinters off and ends up with a face full of dirt.

“You should rely on your friends more!” He can feel the power pulsing through him, the adrenaline from their reunion. On his approach, the air vibrates and tingles over his skin. That runny feeling he experienced below Death’s school is returning, but there is no ache in his bones, no exhaustion, no place for hallucination to settle in. He ignores the urge to focus on his wrist, on his Letters, because right now, in this place, on this stage, he needs to win. Not for his Words, not for his own red destiny, but for his friends.

Masamune’s blades crash against the iron hard skin of the Kishin, the regret and emotions of the ghost of the past simmering in the space where Tsubaki’s soul overlaps his. He said he’d bear it, and so he shall.

Black*Star is whipped back to the ground and Asura is suddenly in his face with his rotten manic smile, lips furled back. “You’re just like _him_ … but not as scary somehow.” The image of a white-haired man, cloaked in black and blood comes unbidden, and that runny feeling intensifies until Black*Star’s face is-

A gentle hand is on his shoulder, the coolness blows across his skin. He can hear a piano, but it is the voice a step behind him that rips him back to the present. “You can count on us.” Maka’s voice is as soft as she ever gets, which isn’t much, but he hears it and it tinges his cheeks pink. _You can count on me._

Black*Star is tired of hallucinating, so when Kid flies off the handle, blasting off after Asura, he gladly follows. He lets go of his focus, unable to maintain single-mindedness if he wants to steer clear of visions of an outcome he hates. He focuses instead on many things. His breathing, each footfall on the fleshy ramp Kishin has so kindly (unintentionally) made for him. Tsubaki is regulating their resonance and Masamune’s swords swing around him in a storm of sharpness.

“You are bound by Death’s will, a _slave_ to the will of a god.”

No. He will not be a puppet. Not anymore. The shackle on his wrist needs to be broken.

“You foolish humans, blindly trusting; you’re all the same.”

He’s Human, but his trust is earned, not given. A mortal vessel, but his aspirations are higher than gods. His spirit and soul are strengthened, a honed weapon. Tsubaki’s power blooms and he slashes her blade into the stomach of this pale imitation of a living being.

The impassive face of this _thing_ pisses him off more than anything ever has. “You’re Madness incarnate! How could you possibly know anything about humanity?!”

“I’m a god. I know all humans.”

“I SWORE NOT TO FAIL,” Black*Star yells, preparing his next strike. “GODS DON’T DETERMINE FATE.”

The Kishin’s hands move rapidly, directing strips of sallow flesh. “Your Lord Death and I are the same. We decide to kill or to let live.”

“WRONG! YOU CAN’T DETERMINE MY FATE! THERE’S NO PROOF IT CAN’T BE CHANGE-“ the skin snaps around him. The blow that comes next burns and rips through his stomach. The power has no physical form, a fiery shadow that passes through his body at the molecular level. Black*Star swears he can feel every cell that makes up his torso explode in pain.

-

Maka is flying as furiously as she can. Black*Star isn’t screaming, but black fire is streaming from his back. “Let him _go!_ ” Her scream is completely ineffective. Asura’s attention doesn’t waver from Black*Star’s stricken face.

Vajra is ejected from the Kishin’s throat, spittle flying off the blade, and Maka won’t reach him in time. Black*Star isn’t talking and there’s no way she can cross the distance, even with the powerful wings her soul has built with Soul. Vajra’s tip is clenched between Black*Star’s teeth and the glow from inside Asura’s mouth is growing.

“ _No_!”


	17. Trash

There is a blinding light, but she can’t turn away. She’s seeing spots, but something is moving, falling. Black*Star is falling out of the sky and she’s almost there when he stops. The energy is expelled in an orange beam from his bleeding mouth and Maka spots the thin film of his soul pushing back against the intruding energy, expediting the vomiting.

When it is clear, he laughs, but immediately coughs up blood.

Tsubaki is lifting him to Maka’s altitude and Kid is jetting over, demanding his condition. Black*Star is trying to speak, but it’s largely gurgling until he screws up his face and spits. The red is staining his mouth, but he is focused and Maka can read his eyes and words he forms on soundless lips: _Not alone. Here to kick ass._  She wants to laugh in relief.

Asura is preparing his next attack and she feels the small irritating tug of Soul’s little Demon. She has no time to think about it right now- the Kishin is streaking for them at ridiculous speeds, striking out at Black*Star first. His head snaps to the side as the embodiment of Madness catches Kid off-guard with strips of hardened flesh.

Suddenly, she is alone, steel plating of her boots pressed against Soul’s handle, and face to face with the Kishin. The scent of rotting flesh and fear engulfs her, but she bares her teeth and glares for all she’s worth. The left hook she sees, but can’t block in time against the unnaturally flexible motions of the Kishin. There’s an impact and she feels the crumbling of rock behind her. Her skull is splitting and her back feels like a herd of elephants trampled it.

Maka is tearing and coughing from the singular blow and can’t imagine taking another and surviving. Kid is yelling and she sees the bleary figures of him and Black*Star doubling and shifting in place. Her ears are ringing, but she hears Asura’s voice fine enough.

“This isn’t a place for children. I will not permit scum like you to take part in this fight.”

Kid jumps into the path of Asura in her defense, but is quickly outmatched by the black fire. Her vision is clearing, but it is only to see Black*Star’s sneak attack fail utterly against a barrage of flesh-formed whips. She watches clearly as he falls again, gritting her teeth.

Soul is doing an assessment, asking if she can move, but what choice does she have? She won’t succumb to fear. The Kishin is addressing Kid, discounting her again, leaving her for last. Her pride burns and she forces the wings through Soul to rise into his range. “Kid is filled with kindness while the only thing you have is your fear!”

Her voice is scratchy from the yelling, but it is clear and strong as she does the ordering for once, taking lead. The initiation of their resonance link is seamless in a way it has never been before. She can feel Kid’s purple soul, bruised but powerful, aided by Liz and Patti. She can feel Tsubaki’s, riding along the edge of Black*Star’s soul, a bright familiar beacon.

The Demon Hunter flares to life when she is in range. The black fire is building and she is a split second from obliteration when Black*Star’s knee is suddenly in Asura’s face and Maka feels vindication.

-

He hates how awful he sounds, but his voice isn’t anywhere near as terrible as what almost just happened. “Idiot! You were about to die!”

He can feel more blood clots spilling into his mouth for even attempting to use his vocal cords. Maka’s attack left her wide open and the black fire couldn’t be dodged or deflected. His oldest friend is audacious enough to respond.

“I believed you would protect me.”

She’s grinning and he knows it is directed at him, despite how her verdant glare focuses on the Kishin. She slashes downward and follows up immediately and Black*Star knows he’s grinning, too. Soul’s piano tells him where the Witch Hunter will reach, where to be to attack and to stay clear. Maka is clearing out to make another pass with more momentum as he tries to distract the Kishin.

The black fire is blazing in an inferno around Madness, flaring and focused on the tips of Soul’s wings. Black*Star knows it is coming, but part of his heart jumps when Maka flips off Soul and uses gravity to bring the red and black blade down on Asura’s neck. His soul charged fist lands next to Maka’s boot in the being’s stomach, the force of impact pushing them away.

Kid’s final line is connecting and he watches, putting his faith in his friend. The newly birthed Lord of Death launches his frontal assault and Black*Star uses his speed to attack from the rear.

“There is only scum left, trash.”

A clash of blade against Black Blood-hardened skin. An explosion of compressed purple wavelength. The frenetic melody of a piano. Black*Star swallows to moisten his throat.

“I’m what you call trash, but…” The piano changes key and Maka’s anti-demon wavelength is broadcasting loud and clear as she preps to bring down the large blade on the Kishin.

“You again? I’ll crush you all.”

The next shockwave blasts them all into the cliff face. A flesh blade is slicing through the rock like a hot knife through butter and he blocks, deflecting it just as it reaches Kid and Maka. There is a sharp cutoff in Soul’s music and the pulse that speeds through him is pure Madness. Maka is yelling at Soul and the Kishin is blasting forward again. Maka’s face is registering shock as she flies. Black*Star rushes to block off the corruption’s path with Kid, but a large energy ball appears, filling the area with blinding light.

He’s squinting, everything too bright, but the light doesn’t affect his hearing. The sound of bones breaking and the squelch of blood reaches him and he swears his heart drops out of his body straight down to the earth. Every nerve in his body is rapid-firing a mix of fight or flight and he is frozen. The light is dying down and he wants to be sick, he wants to cry, he wants to just stop everything and get off this ride. It can’t be real.

The Kishin’s arm is through Maka’s chest.

-

She’s pretty sure she’s dead. If she isn’t, she’s about to be. Maka always heard that your life flashes before you right before you die. A little further digging produced some papers by psychologists and neuroscientists that explained it as the braintrying to find a way to keep the body alive, to search all available knowledge.

Nothing Maka was seeing could possibly put a stopper in the giant hole in her chest.

“You said you’re Maka. Why did you choose me?” _I’m a scythe technician and you’re a scythe, right?_ “I’m going to play the piano… consider this my self-introduction…” _Heh, how pretentious._

_ I don’t understand music, though. How is that a self-introduction? _ “C’mon, he’s not from here. Maybe he thinks it’s normal?” _Where would that be normal?_ “He’s a scythe and you’re a scythe technician. You shouldn’t back away because he can tickle the ivories…” _T-tickle the ivories? Are you serious?_ “Oh shut up, Nygus was over last week watching old romance movies.”

“How’s your face?” _Bruised, but I deserved it._ “I let you hit the second time.” _I know_. “...you were upset.” _We don’t have these conversations, ‘Star._ “Hmph. Well, I’ll be around.” _...I know._

“Call for me if something happens.”

_ It wasn’t just that time either. _

“You can put your faith in me!”

_ You’re always rescuing me. You must really like me, huh? _

“I can fight without a weapon, so leave it to me.”

_ Let him go! No! _

“Idiot! You were about to die!”

_ I believed you would protect me. _

“MAK!”

_ We’ll always be friends, right? _ “Duh, what kinda question is that? Have some faith in the great me!”

Her brain is fogging over black and murky, but the edges are clearing and the sky is too bright and her father’s voice sounds frantic and far away. The delirium is flooding her every limb and she can’t stop giggling.

“Eheh hee, I just saw a flashback…”

It tingles when Asura pulls his arm out of her chest where everything is black, black, black. The wound is gushing, but her soul is vibrating with the sound of a badly tuned piano. Soul is pushing Madness through her veins and there’s nothing to do, but let it take over.

-

Black*Star’s skin is burning. The imagery overload didn’t compute as the blood spurting from the hole in his dearest friend’s chest cloaks her in a sheet of darkness. The blood is black and it is clothing her in a gown of brutal elegance. The widened and vacant eyes blink into a clear green he is familiar with and he still feels like he is burning and yet cold at the same time.

_ What just happened _ ?

He is right next to her and she glances over. His voice still doesn’t work the way he wants; is she ok? “Though’ y’died…”

Her smile is small. “I did, too.” She blows a puff of air out of her nose like she just can’t believe what happened herself. “I need a favor. I need to hit the Kishin to reach Crona.”

_ Still not giving up, huh? _ He grins, throat too sore to chuckle at her, as he takes up a post next to Kid, ready for action. He has to; his Words are red and her dress, her blood is black. He will do everything to protect her and to change the red fate tied to his wrist. The ending is convoluted and becoming more narrow, but he can’t focus on it as another volley of blinding energy is shot in their direction.

“You think you became invincible with the Black Blood?!” Vajra is clamped between two rows of blunt yellow teeth and so suddenly embedded in Maka’s shoulder that he is there before he can think.

His foot kicks the offender away, the sharp demonsteel rips from her skin. He is completely open, arms outstretched to keep her away. He barely pulls an arm in to guard against the lightning-fast strike that aims at his heart. Black*Star’s forearm snaps. The pain is excruciating and so harsh that he almost doesn't feel his own impact into the surface of the moon.

Tsubaki is yelling his name, but he cannot feel anything over than a hazy pain. His toes are numb and something is weird about his back, his left arm is definitely unuseable. His right is still that unbearable temperature, the heat sinking further and further down into his wrist and the fingers viced around the hilt of Tsubaki’s form.

Maka is looking down, distracted by his injury, so he does what he can. As soon as he moves, he knows there is something horribly wrong. He stands, but there is no feeling beneath his chest; his body works on muscles alone. Tsubaki is rattling off injuries, voice drowning in worry. Black*Star just turns to Maka and yells, what’s left of his vocal cords shredded.

“Don’t worry about one damn arm! YOU JUST LOOK STRAIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!”

The sweat from the pain he _can_ feel is burning him up anew. Tsubaki whispers about his spine, but Black*Star grits his teeth and forces an image of Tsubaki and Liz, sitting and laughing on the rim of the biggest fountain in Death City, through their bond. Tsubaki relents a little, his message understood. He knows what he has to do, and the stark image of red tattooed across the inside of his wrist flashes unbidden.

Tsubaki catches it. They are in the air and slashing at the Kishin, her dark shadowy form supporting his skeleton. She understands him well; in this aspect, they are the same.

The next motions happen very quickly. External allied forces distract the Madness incarnate just enough for Kid to hit and suppress it with him. He wraps his broken arm around the Kishin into a chokehold while Kid deals with the legs and torso. His blue-green eyes blaze as Asura tries to fight back and Maka strikes her hand into the ivory keys on Soul’s blade.

“I can fight because of everyone!”

Aqua meets green for a fraction of a second and the tip of the blade sinks into the Kishin’s body.

“My Faith, all of it into this strike!”

Maka sinks through the wound, Soul first, then her shoulder, ending with her Black Blood-heeled foot.

All the Black Blood has coalesced.

It feels like hours before they emerge, Maka calling for Crona, but it’s been seconds. The wave of Black Blood gushes from their egress and Black*Star pulls Maka back as the wave crashes over the surface and overtakes Spirit. The smile and thumbs up has her screaming, but he’s certain Spirit would have wanted him to keep her safe before himself.

She’s trembling under his hand and he hates himself, his Words, his inability to save them all from this, from his red fate washed in black.


	18. Black Blood

Maka wakes up in a cold sweat, panting. It’s been a week since the events on the moon, but every moment inside the Kishin and on the surface of that cackling celestial body revisits her in both sleep and waking dreams. An endless sea of black, Crona’s small tremulous voice, Soul’s haunting melody that pulled them back out, Black*Star’s horrific injuries. Tonight, it was the curtain of darkness that swept over the surface and her father’s strained yet reassuring smile.

Shuddering, she inhales, trying to remember the return to earth. Crashing into her very much alive father, that embrace that reminded her so much of being a child just a month ago is now a grateful feeling that she is still a daughter and not an orphan. The white cotton drapes around her cot are another reminder that the worst is over.

Her breathing is evening out, but with the change comes the coughing and pain. While the Black Blood had saved her from a certain death, her lungs are weak. Even resting, she has shallow breath; deep breathing brings on coughing fits and prickling pain that grows from her sternum throughout her chest. The array of medical tests she’s been exposed to revealed stress fractures in her ribs and sternum.

Maka is grounded, barred from taking on strenuous missions.

Maka knows she will be prohibited from any missions even after her recovery is over. And her Path has been laid in rubble, her wrist free of leather straps or gloves and Words without meaning. She waits for the pain to subside, staring blankly at the infirmary ceiling until her vision grays.

-

Black*Star lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He does this so much now he has practically memorized the cracks and popped nails as the water stain in the corner. Barely over a week since the battle on the moon and he is chained to his bed. Tsubaki and the others visit, but Maka hasn’t yet. She is apparently bedridden in the next room over. It’s all he can do but he wishes he could walk over there. Wishes he could verify that she is alive with his own eyes, to banish the image of a long spindly arm protruding from her back.

His legs won’t carry him.

The final impact broke his spine and left him paralyzed from his lower back down. Utilizing his muscles instead of remaining still caused even more damage. His right arm is numb most of the time, but at least he can move his fingers sometimes. Kim came in to heal his broken bones right away, but the nerve damage wasn’t something she could fix.

Nygus and Kim concurred that it would be at least another two weeks before he could sit up or even think about getting into a wheelchair.

It’s well past midnight, he’s sure. His wrist is bare under the fabric of his sheets, itchy as it has been since he first woke.

He hasn’t had the heart to look at his Words yet.

-

“You need to keep away from strenuous activity, including running and stretching further than we’ve been doing in your morning practice,” Nygus says, writing on her clipboard the latest results from her spirometry test. “Try not to stress yourself, Maka.”

“But I can walk around?” She tingling, so ready to leave the cot behind.

“Yes, you can.”

Minutes after Nygus leaves, she is shakily standing and toeing into a set of slippers Soul brought from their apartment. Soul wasn’t around much, stuck in meetings with Kid and the witches, taking small missions and working on his solo skills. There were still remnants of the corruption caused by the Kishin across the globe. The roundup was going smoothly in conjunction with the witches.

When Soul was around, he was always torn up inside. Maka could sense his hesitation and awkwardness over her condition.

The lack of the little Demon’s presence was a good sign. When he stopped in to drop off items from home and give her updates, he’d sit and play his piano-scythe in the corner. The sound was just babbling in the background. No tune caught her attention as he never played the one from their introduction.

He once played what he called the ‘Adagio of the Soul’, but she asked him to stop part-way through. The memories of Giriko and the phantom feeling of Arachne’s threads were too much.

The sun is starting to sink and Maka pushes away her thoughts as she pushes through her sick room door. Next door is Black*Star, the only person she hasn’t seen yet.

She knocks softly, but no response reaches her. Maybe it is better if he’s sleeping. She slips into the room, a little unsteady on feet she hasn’t used in a while.

The light filters in straw yellow, painting the room softly. Black*Star is stiller than she’s ever seen, but when her eyes reach his face, aqua eyes are open and fixed on her. His face shows he wants to speak, but he doesn’t open his mouth as she reaches the chair next to his bed.

She coughs as she leans her elbows on his cot and his face screws up in concern.

“Weak lungs, see? With that and the fractures, I…” More coughing, everything is welling up. “I can’t… I won’t-”

Everything she hadn’t let out before is pouring over the edge now. Black*Star’s jaw is working, grinding his teeth, before he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He tries again.

“Mak…” The pitch is all wrong, but the tone is familiar, the shortening of her name a balm. It’s so clear he wants to say more, but the strain on his voice must be too much. His hand turns over, no longer broken.

She takes it and holds on.

-

The day to day routine is the same: wake up, eat bad hospital food, physical therapy, a walk around the hospital courtyard, more food, rest and vocal training, dinner, visitors, sleep. By far, his favorite pieces were the visitors and jaunt around the courtyard. Tsubaki had stopped by just last night with some smuggled food- simple rice balls, but so delicious- and announced that Liz had asked her to move in. She’d been worried about how he’d fare once he was out of the hospital, but she needn’t have worried. Black*Star wouldn’t let her give up her key and assured her that he would ask for help if he needed it, however begrudgingly.

The walk around the small garden in the hospital’s inner courtyard is even more enjoyable though. Maka meets him there, after her own therapy, to push his wheelchair, and they commiserate on what awful method the therapists are using that week. Their status as technicians tends to make the therapists harder on them, setting the bar higher and higher each day. The constant reminder of their profession put on hold is unbearable, with their injuries as they are.

They will never be what they once were, what they could have been.

The acceptance of this is difficult and unachieved. They had no plans for anything else; they are Death Children, meant to serve. So they cope with dark humor and plotting against the therapists and doctors, trying to inject levity into a situation they no longer have control over.

When his visitors are forced out at the end of the day, he thinks of the night Maka first sat with him. The grip on his hand was tight and shaking. There was so much he wanted to say, to make her stop crying, to help her, but his voice was not there. His hand was numb except for the tips of his fingers. And Maka- Maka’s wrists were bare.

He holds his hand up over his head as he lays on the cot. Her black Letters were elegant, neatly arranged and beautiful. _Faith-_ so like her.

So he unwraps the band from his own wrist and views his own, the Script not nearly as neat and flowing. The explicit Words he had, those infernal red Marks- they didn’t burn or itch anymore.

He runs a finger over them and clenches his hand in a fist, a light feeling welling up in his chest. For his Words are now black, black like his name, black like Maka’s dress, black like the blood of Madness, black like Death’s cloak. His Letters are Black and his soul is calm.


	19. Faith

Black*Star waves at Killik as the other man leaves with a bag of tools. The small workshop in Death’s School is cluttered, but they have carved out an area to work on his ‘legs’. The braces aren't painted yet, but they are just about done. He stuffs them into the duffel bag and hangs it on the back of his chair. Rolling around is easier than before with his arms fully healed and gaining muscle again, but Black*Star longs to be on his feet.

With his soul’s force, he can feel and trigger his muscles, but it isn’t enough to stand on his own. Using this has helped him keep the muscles from atrophying completely.The braces will help keep him standing to move. He hits the lights and pulls the door closed. In the hall is Maka.

“What are you doing here?”

She twists her fingers together as she answers. “You didn’t show up for our walk so…”

“Well, I’m working on the ‘walk’ part,” he says as he slaps the bag and rolls next to her. “Let’s have it now. I’m on my way home.”

As has become custom since he could fully use his arms, he propels himself and Maka walks next to him. The walk from Death’s School is long to his apartment on the outskirts and the first few minutes pass in companionable silence. He’s thinking about what to say when she speaks.

“...Soul doesn’t have Words.”

He brakes and she gets a few steps ahead. “What?”

“He doesn’t have them.” She doesn’t turn around, hands gripping together tightly behind her back. “All this time, he… He thinks the Black Blood stopped them from appearing.”

Black*Star doesn’t know how to respond. No weapon or technician has ever not had Words. He is rolling forward again and past her, rapid-fire thoughts ringing in his head. “...better none than red.”

There are footsteps behind him and he wonders if she heard him. When hands grab the handles of his wheelchair and pull him to a stop, he figures she did.

“What did you say? ...you have… red Words?” The confusion and worry in her green eyes has never been clearer.

“Let- hey! Let go,” He wrenches the chair out of her grip. "I don’t have red Words.” Green eyes narrow on him and he looks away under their force. “Look, Mak…”

“No, ‘Star, what are they? Are they black? Do you even have them?!”

He’s biting his lip so hard he thinks it might bleed.

“I can’t-”

“Fine.” And with that she is stomping off in the opposite direction. He has no idea how that went so poorly.

-

Maka bounces her stress ball off her bedroom wall for the 57th time. She isn’t seething, but simmering. Her brain is working overtime, trying to piece together too many different things at once. The lack of focus means lack of progress and ends in a vicious cycle of frustration. The 58th thump resounds in the room as she catches the ball.

She squeezes it for good measure and flops back onto her bed. The jostling makes her chest twinge in pain and the frustration breaks into a wave of anger and self-pity. She takes a deep breath and holds it, the pinpricks stabbing into her lungs until she releases it. Like a deflated parade float, Maka lets go of all tension. The ball rolls out of her hand and across the floor slowly.

Darkness, a grinning moon, sacrifice, her failure.

Her father’s Words, The Most, a stronger bond, an easy wavelength to hold.

Soul’s demon disappearing, Black Blood, bare wrists, drifting away.

Broken ribs, labored breath, an order to sit still, her Path shattered.

A straight spine, electric feeling, red Words, black Words.

Her finger traces absently over her Letters, all five of them black and neat. Was her interpretation wrong? All her Faith, for one strike, one chance. Was there another Path to follow? Maka shuts her eyes tightly, fingers resting on the inside of her wrist.

She reaches out without effort, no longer needing threads to dance along. She finds it easy enough, on the outskirts of town; the familiar beacon is dimmed with sleep, but steady and constant.

-

She’s standing awkwardly in the doorway, not sure if she should go in or not. Black*Star had called her and left a message to meet at the tinkering shop room he had been frequenting with Killik. Maka’s still unsure about how she is supposed to act after storming off five days ago. Her head is cooled, but she doesn’t know what to say, like there is a stone in the pit of her stomach.

Black*Star for his part, seems unaffected. He rolls from the tool chest with a screwdriver and pulls the brace he doesn’t have strapped on into his lap. He hums a little while making the last minute adjustment.

“What are you standing all the way over there for?” He doesn’t even look up as he waves the screwdriver absently over his shoulder. “Get in here.”

She steps tentatively forward, biting her lips together. “‘Star, about the other day…”

The screwdriver bangs onto the table.

“Don’t worry about it!” He wheels around, a too big grin in place. As he straps the second brace to his leg and reaches to connect it to the piece that wraps around his lower back, he doesn’t meet her eyes. “...can you-?”

Black*Star motions to a fastening hinge he can’t reach while sitting in the wheelchair. She rushes forward, happy to do something to avoid conversation.

“Okay, so I kinda… well, I wanted to show you first, but obviously, Killik was the first one…” He grips the handles of the chair hard, the footrests already flipped up. “And, uh, well, Stein had to be here for the soul force stuff and then Sid and Nygus were here… with Kim.”

Blue-green flashes up at her nervously through his bright bangs and his hands flex on the chair. He’s uncomfortable being vulnerable and the past months have been harder on him than her for that reason alone. His knuckles are white, but Maka knows that this is important to him. It’s important to let him do this himself.

These are his first steps back into independence, to a sense of normalcy.

She hears the heavy exhale of determination and he’s raising himself up with his arms. Maka can’t help it; her senses are reaching out to watch him use his soul to stand, to stay standing. Black*Star lets go of the chair and stands tall. He’s doing a terrible job of hiding his smile and Maka feels his pride, reads it in his soul.

He is glowing, soul crackling like electricity across his body in a way only she can see right now. She watches the neon blues race out from the bright center and trigger his leg muscles, one at a time. Suddenly, Black*Star is right in front of her, looking down at her and his soul is pulsing.

“Well? Do I look good?” His question is tinged with humor as he sways a little on his feet.

“Eh?” She reaches out on instinct to steady him. “Wh-what?”

“You’re using your soul sense. Your eyes get all funky.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Her hands feel like she’s been holding them close to a van de graaf generator. “You look good.”

“Stein said the same. I’m going to try and walk home with them today,” he says as he steps out of her space. They are small steps, but his balance is improving.

“So soon?” Black*Star folds the wheelchair up and packs the screwdriver and a few other tools into his bag. He turns to face her, a million watt smile on his face. His movements are still slow, but growing in confidence. She figures it’ll be a week or twobefore he starts jogging with the braces on.

The usual bite of jealousy that comes with thoughts like those is strangely absent and replaced with a tiny glow of pride. She swallows the emotion as she’s ushered out the door. Black*Star is locking up behind them and the movement draws her eyes to his hands.

There is a thin black cloth wrapped around Black*Star’s right wrist.

“‘Star… why?”

His face screws up in confusion. “Why what, Mak?” The questions are bubbling forward, clouding her mind, and she can’t choose what she wants to say, she’s already screwed up once and she doesn’t-

_ Why is it me? Why are you so-  _ “Why did you want me to see first?” Somehow her brain lands on a question that seems safest.

The widening of his eyes and the creeping pink of his ears onto cheeks makes her nervous though. Her hair stands on end as she waits for him to open his mouth.

“Because… ugh-” he runs a hand roughly through his hair- he could use a haircut, she thinks- before reaching out and taking her arm. “Because I know you, I trust you.” His hand slips down until he has two fingers lingering over her pulse. “Mak, you’re my best friend.”

She must be breathing too fast because she can feel the beginnings of the prickles in her lungs. The electric feeling she’s come to associate with Black*Star is warm and tingling right under his fingertips, over her Words, the leather band a thin barrier.

Blue-green and sage lock when he says softly, “Because you had Faith in me, Maka.”

Like a switch has been flipped, Maka wrenches her hand away and grabs Black*Star’s wrist. The black cloth is fluttering to the floor and she is stretching his arm out for inspection.

Black Letters. Black Blood.

She drops his hand like it burns and in a way, it truly does. The tingle roars into an inferno of emotion and she’s tripping backwards.

_ I have Black Words. _

_ -better than red _

_ You can’t determine my fate! _

“...'you can’t prove they can’t be changed’… ‘Star… they were…” she’s stumbling and Black*Star is trying to reach out, but the look in his eyes only confirms what she already knows. “They were red, ‘Star? They _were?_ You knew? The Black Blood... all of it?”

She’s down the hallway and out into the desert air before she can breath properly. Her chest is burning from the exertion as she clutches the brick exterior, nails chipping on the rough surface. All this time, all this misery and the trials they went through.

Black*Star had the root of it all Written on him.

And what did she have? Maka snaps the leather wrist strap, fingers curled in a fist.

Faith.

_ Because you had Faith in me, Maka. _

The breath she draws in next is so fast and deep that she sees fireworks behind her eyes. The static on her skin raises goosebumps, tracing her spine and her five Letters. Fist clenched and jaw set, Maka turns on her heel.

-

The wheelchair is knocked over, his bag slumped on the floor next to it. When Maka turned the corner, he had sagged against the door jam and sank down, chipping the yellow and blue paint job Killik had put on the back brace. His soul relinquished hold on his legs and they sprawled out uselessly on the floor in front of him.Black*Star’s mind is empty, unable to even want to think about anything. The best person in his life just ran from him for the second time in a week.

“DAMMIT!”

Black*Star bangs a fist into the wall beside him, denting the drywall a little.

He digs his nails into his scalp and listens to his own breathing even out then stutter until steady footsteps vibrate the tiled floor. He’d know those steps anywhere and they sound angry. Black*Star peeks through fingers and sees Maka storming his way, pigtails bouncing. As she continues towards him, Maka’s voice forces its way into his ears.

“Black*Star, ever since we were little, I’ve wanted to be strong like you. I looked up to you, trusted you, gave you a piece of my soul to guard. You have never let me down, not once, even when I didn’t know I needed you. I had Faith in you like I had Faith in noone else.” She stops a few feet shy of his sneakers. Her hands are balled up and her shoulders tight. “I’ve always had faith in you, Black*Star. That you would be here, regardless of what happened in our lives.”

It’s when Maka sinks to her knees that Black*Star notices the absence of the plain leather strap. His hands move from his face to grip the fabric of his sweats, needing something to hold onto to stop him from reaching out. His heart is racing a mile a minute watching her hands twitch in her lap. She sticks out her Marked arm and he isn’t sure what she wants until she grabs his. Holding them up side by side: Faith and Black Blood.

“But I think what was just as important was the trust you put in me. Knowing what you did, this whole time, ‘Star, I just…” Her conflict is raw in her voice, her hand trembling even as she grips his wrist firmly. The hurt- hurt for him- is written on her face, crumpling as a splotchy red. His hand turns and takes her forearm. Their Words are pressed together as he pulls her closer. He shushes her as she keeps babbling.

“I didn’t know what was gonna happen, but I wasn’t gonna let them stay red. C’mon…” Her forehead is heavy on his shoulder. “The ‘great me’ couldn’t let it stay that way, right?” He leans his head on hers and smiles when her face presses into him, shaking her head.

He thinks she mutters that he's an idiot into his shirt so he snorts lightly. Black*Star brings Maka's wrist up, pressing his mouth against her Faith, and murmurs.

“I’ll always be with you, Mak, to the last Letter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I really hope you've enjoyed TtLL and that you've seen and loved on my artists' work as well. I'm happy to say I completed my first ever Resbang! Please review if you have some time; I'd love to know what you think. :)


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